Cicadas

Many people have heard but never seen a Cicada.  That whirring buzzing clicking sound you hear in the summer air is a male Cicada.  Vibrating membranes on the insect's abdomen create this sound.  You might call it a love song.

After the loving, the female cuts a slit in a young twig and deposits eggs.  Now the parent Cicadas have fulfilled their life's purpose and die.

When the eggs hatch the nymphs (wingless segmented creatures resembling a grub with sturdy legs and big eyes) fall to the ground and burrow into the dirt.  They remain underground sucking on root juices and growing for years, the number of years depends on the species and things like latitude and weather and other mysterious forces that effect bugs.

When the nymph reaches adulthood he emerges from the ground and climbs a tree.  The skin on his back splits open, peels back and out comes the adult Cicada. 

Some Cicada Facts

-  approximately 3,000 species

-  adult life span:  1 week

-  nymph life span:  1 to 20 years

-  adults have 4 wings

-  range:  throughout the US and southern Canada

-  adult size:  1 - 2.5 inches long 

To listen to the love songs visit :   http://insects.ummz.lsa.umich.edu/fauna/Michigan_Cicadas/Michigan/Index.html

picture shared by:

http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/bugs/cicada/





Fluffy and Vote Sign

Walt vs Cicada

Yesterday I witnessed a fight to the death.  Happily, one of the combatants was already on the verge of death when the battle began. 

Wait.  Happily?  It was probably not all that happy for the Cicada.



The fight began as Walt and I were walking down the sidewalk, as we are on most weekdays around noon.  Walter and I have a working relationship.  I come over to Walter's house while his daddy is at work and we take a walk.

Mid and late summer here in southern Michigan is often hot.  It seems like the sidewalks glow with a  hostile power this time of year.  Mid and late summer is also a time when one notices Cicadas dropping well, like flies.  Lots of times these death throeing insects do it right there on the sidewalk.  Once the Cicada hits the sidewalk he is pretty much out of energy.  His life force nearly spent, he gasps desperately to retain the remnants of his vigor as the concrete steams beneath him. When threatened, he cannot fly away.  However, he can manage a strange buzzing sound that vibrates his body, causing it to zip around.  

This is just what happened on that fateful Thursday, otherwise known as yesterday.  Walt felt compelled to pursue the zipping bug.  He got his lips on it but recoiled at the weird vibration.  That didn't stop him, he went back for another go,  gingerly pushing his nose on the now motionless Cicada.  Another bzzz another zip.  The bug was moving slowly, but managed to slip himself into the cover of some ornamental grass.  Now Walt could not reach the Cicada.  He glanced up at me. The bug was valiantly struggling to dig himself in between two shoots of grass.  I am loathe to admit this, but I bent down and parted the grass, giving Walt another shot at his ever weakening opponent.

Walt thrust his face in the grass, grasped the Cicada in his mouth and bit down.  He backed away from the clump of grass and dropped his vanquished foe onto the sidewalk. 

The Cicada moved no more.  I waited, certain that Walter would eat the Cicada.  Surely, a macho guy like Walt has some sort of warrior code that requires him to consume the flesh of his enemy to possess the enemy's strength -or something.  Failing romantic heroic reasons,  I thought at the very least Walt would eat the bug because he could. 

He didn't.   Walt and I continued with our walk.  The defeated Cicada lay on the hot sidewalk.

 

**Walter is a pseudonym.  This pugnacious terrier has been fooling folks for years with a soft and fuzzy persona.  I will keep his secret.

***we at Pets and Other Critters lack the technological ability to alter photographs to hide ones identity....remarkably an "artist" happened by and agreed to render a drawing to help bring the action to life.  Cool, huh?  It's almost like those court scene drawings you see on the news!

!!!!! Coming Soon! Fun Facts about Cicadas!!!!!!

The Butcher's Secret

There is a smallish store in my town where I shop for groceries.  Smallish, in that it is big enough to have a decent selection of items, but not so big that you need a compass to find your way from the  soup to the cereal.  And being a regular customer affords me the pleasure of banter with some of the staff. 

Take the meat department for instance.  This is a cheerful group.  Raucous laughter is generally heard from the deli area.  The meat gang is slightly more restrained but typically jolly.  (Ever notice that the disposition of meat eaters leans to the convivial as opposed to the often gloomy manner of the vegan crowd?).

I home cook for my dogs and husband (omnivores all, but clearly flesh aficionados) so I am always on the lookout for good meat deals.  The butchers know me because I buy in bulk.  Today pork chops and chicken thighs are on sale.  As my favorite butcher wraps my order, I happen to notice a little note on the back wall near the time clock. 

It reads:  Bill's Blasting Zone A. 

I chuckle and ask if that is where Bill (my other favorite butcher) goes to fart. 

Yes, she says.  You would not believe the gaseousness of that guy! 

Bill is always friendly and pleasant.  Now I know why.  No pent up gas.  Ever notice how pent up people are usually not so very friendly or pleasant? 

Advice well worth putting into practice.  Let it rip.  But please confine your releases to the designated blasting zone.

Thank you and happy digestion to all!





**the name of the flatulent butcher has been changed to protect him from, well, fart jokes.  Enough is enough.  pfffft

Whose Tomatoes?

This year I decided not to plant a tomato plant in my yard because one was planted for me.  Back in May, a little weed appeared.  It looked to be a tiny tomato plant.  Instead of pulling it out and tossing it in the compost pile, I left it there -just for fun- to see if it would grow into a real live tomato plant.

This is not the ideal spot for growing tomatoes, needless to say.   The location is inches from the driveway, smack next to well used paths leading to the yard and the garage.  Dogs and people and who knows how many other critters stomp regularly through this area.  Still, the little weed proved to be determined and hardy.  Soon it was several inches tall with multiple limbs and many many fruit bud clusters.  Feeling protective, I put a couple of short stakes beside it and attached an old shoe lace to encircle this resolute weed.

Some tomato growers advise that you trim off all branches that lack fruit buds.  This keeps the plant  focused on fruit production rather than wasting valuable resources on leaves.  Allowing the plant to grow willy-nilly, as I have done in the past, produces plants four feet tall that must be supported by sturdy stakes and coils and gates and string and whatnot.   Using the trimming method on the little tomato weed has produced a small sturdy plant brimming with fruit and fruit buds.  

Alas, the fruit is not yet ripe.  As all gardeners know, patience is part of the game.  Furthermore, we must accept (or at least acknowledge) the reality that the gardener cannot control everything that happens out there.

The other day a squirrel sat beside the tomato plant.  In his hands was a mauve colored tomato.  Interestingly, cherry tomatoes are perfectly sized for squirrel hands. No doubt about it, the tomato weed is a cherry tomato plant.  The squirrel took a bite out of the tomato.  No wonder all the tomatoes on the plant are green.  As soon as they begin to ripen Mr. Squirrel plucks them. 

Whose tomato is it anyway?  

Fluffy & George Socialize

In and of the Vacuum/Brain Teaser, Part 2

Why IS the little bird unafraid of the vacuum cleaner while the big dog is afraid?


Imagine a flock of  birds scattered about in a half acre area.  Some are on the ground walking around, some are perched in trees and bushes, others are flying from one place to another.  When all is well they are active.  They sing and chirp and chatter.  If a hawk appears overhead the birds go silent and still.  Sound signals safe.  Quiet means danger.  Therefore, perhaps to a bird in a cage inside a house a vacuum cleaner is a reassuring safe sound.

A dog, on the other hand, is a predator.  He's a hunter.  He works stealthfully.  Picture a pack of dogs pursuing prey.  They follow quietly, waiting for a chance to leap in for the kill.  If suddenly a roaring snarling beast were to appear, charging at them, would they not flee in terror?  This is, I believe, why the vacuum cleaner frightens so many dogs.


So much for heady theories.

And what of onomatopoeia, you ask?  Such a fun word.  Onomatopoeia means a word that means a sound, the word is formed by that sound; imitates the sound.  For our purposes, we have tweet, woof, and roar. 

Echolalia is the process whereby a human baby learns to speak by parroting, or echoing, the words and sounds he hears other human beings making.  This may be how birds learn to sing.  After all, the canary breeder doesn't leave the young male birds alone in a room with a recording of Mario Lanza singing.  The birds are together in the room with other birds.  They can hear each other singing and are encouraged to sing along.  Echolalia is key to helping a creature learn the language of his fellow creatures, not creatures of a different species.  Or maybe not.

Which leads us to another Brain Teaser.  What language speaks the Vacuum?

Here's a Brain Teaser

Why is a little bird unafraid of the vacuum cleaner

while a big dog is?

--stay tuned for heady theories using words like onomatopoeia and echolalia !