My Friend Fred—Part 1

A few years ago I read a book that strongly impacted me—The Voice of the Infinite in the Small: Re-Visioning the Insect-Human Connection, by Joanne Elizabeth Lauck. Its message: we humans have long considered all animals as “other,” as well as being below us. This has been especially true for insects. We dislike them, regard them as pests, see them as useless, and have committed great harm to them. Lauck’s book is a celebration of the insect world, wherein she shows us the beauty, the wonder, and the wisdom of insects. It was a life-changing book for me.

After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.

A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?

But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”

I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.

First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.

Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.

Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.

More on Fred next time…