It began at dusk.
Then another.
Then ALL OF THEM. AT ONCE.
I was just settling in for my fourth post-dinner nap (the important one where I sleep upside-down with my tongue slightly out), when suddenly—SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Cicadas.
Crawling, buzzing, screaming like a kazoo in a blender.
You’d think it was some sort of insect Eurovision out there. One was clearly off-key. Another had no rhythm. And the one in the olive tree sounded like he was gargling gravel.
I sat on the windowsill, tail twitching in dignified rage.
Spurka slept through it. Kitka snored into a pot of thyme.
Cowards.
I, however, took action.
I composed a highly dramatic opera titled:
“Shut Up, You Winged Idiots” — a six-act tragedy in minor keys.
Act I: "Buzz Off"
Act II: "Cease Your Screeching, Sir"
Act III: "How Dare You Ruin My Mood"
Act IV: "The Screaming Bush of Madness"
Act V: "Windows Closed, Yet I Still Suffer"
Act VI: "Meow at the Moon in Defiance"
I performed the overture at 2:13 AM from atop the kitchen counter. My human was deeply moved — she cried out and fell off the bed.
I received no applause. Only a firm "GRYZKA. BED. NOW."
Philistines.
But I know the truth.
I am a genius.
And if the cicadas dare perform again tonight…
I’m bringing Spurka and a saucepan lid.
You’ve been warned, nature.
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