BIG WHEELS KEEP ON ROLLIN’

The sun was warm, the hammock soft, the iced tea cold. It would take a lot to make me move. Like seeing a prehistoric beast on the siding next to me. He was only  
1-1/2 inches long but oh so cool––cool enough to entice me out of my cozy nest.

He wasn’t colorful. In fact, he was quite homely. And it’s not like he had a great personality, either; he just sat there.

It turns out I’m very lucky I didn’t give that little fellow a nudge or turn him over. I’d likely have a scar to show for it. This prehistoric-looking monster was a Wheel Bug, and they do not have good manners.

If you’ve seen a bug with a  cogged wheel on his back, you’ve seen a Wheel Bug. They’re the only insects in the U.S. with that feature. Experts say the wheel doesn’t appear to have a specific purpose, but come on! Its purpose is to be cool!

Another nifty feature of the Wheeler is that it has two upper jaws and two lower jaws. It has a long head that ends in a really long beak, and he folds that back under himself. This insect caught all the breaks––he even has two eyes, one compound and one simple.

Amazingly well endowed as he is, you don’t want to be at a family reunion for the Wheel Bugs. They belong to the family called Assassin Bugs. This is where the long beak comes in. The Wheeler sticks it into anything soft––moth, caterpillar, you, me––and injects its saliva. The saliva has an enzyme that first paralyzes its victim, then dissolves everything inside it. The dual-action beak then becomes a straw, and the Wheeler sucks out a bugilicious smoothie.

Assassin bugs  kill many insects that farmers are happy to be rid of, but unfortunately they don’t discriminate; they kill Lady Bugs and bees, too. If they bite the farmer, he will suffer a vicious wound that can take weeks or months to heal, and it leaves a scar. The bug won’t come after you if you leave it alone, but don’t be irritating it.

Wheel Bugs lay 2-400 eggs that will go through 5 stages of metamorphosis. Even in those nymph stages, they can lay a hurting’ on you. After the female lays the eggs, she dies, but not before she kills her mate. I told you––bad manners.

Even though this bug is advantageous, I wouldn’t want to be its spin-doctor. It’s got a lethal bite, it’s cannibalistic, and one more little thing––if you bug this bug, it will turn around, pop out its orangy-red anal sacs, and blast you with a foul-smelling substance. 

Robert Gates, are you listening? Imagine a tank that can send out a long straw, dissolve the enemy, drink it up, then turn around and blast any survivors with a nasty smelling brew. And all you got are drones?

To see a wheel bug take on a bat:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmV6TjVNZGM&feature=related

SNAKE IN THE KAYAK

Not many days in the country

Are humdrum,

But a snake in the kayak

Is quite a conundrum.

You can roll it and shake it

From starboard to port;

The snake will just head for

The stern with a snort.

Try pounding, try yelling,

Try using a stick;

Threaten his life;

Give the kayak a kick.

The snake in the kayak

Does not plan on leaving;

Kiss your paddle goodbye,

And get on with your grieving.

LIFE ON THE FEEDLOT

We are surrounded by farms. To the west, a thousand-head of cattle merrily graze  on a thousand acres. To the south, a hog confinement graces the horizon. Heading north we find two llamas guarding a herd of sheep. Head east and  you get all of the above plus an Amish farm with over a hundred goats. That, by the way, is a lot of Mason jars full of canned goat meat. Across the English River you’ll see emus racing around their pen. If you go to Sunday dinner at their house, do not ask for the drumstick. So here’s an invitation: come to my neighborhood, climb up on a big platform, pick up a bullhorn, and announce, “I am a vegetarian.”

In truth, I pretty much keep that information to myself. If someone is about to plop a steak on my plate, I mumble something about my vegetarian status. While I consume my fair share of soybeans, farmers around here cannot contain their disgust towards us "meatless whackos."

I can’t imagine demanding that a carnivore explain why she eats meat, but vegetarians are grilled, broiled, and ridiculed, sometimes by people we hardly know. It’s open season, as though I am going to the bank and personally withdrawing everything from their farm accounts. Mothers put their children behind their legs as though I'm going to force a  rutabaga on them. Go to the Volunteer Fireman's fund-raising breakfast, and before you can speak, they throw bacon, sausage, and ham on top of your pancake. A three-meat breakfast is an expectation.

I don’t push my food beliefs on others. I’m not always greeted with the same consideration. When they ask me why I don’t eat meat––and they always do––I say I won’t eat an animal if I wouldn’t kill it myself. I don’t go into gory details about why I wouldn’t kill it or why I won't let someone else do my dirty work. That's because they have already moved away from me shaking their heads.

The farmer who owned the nomadic herd (see entry for March 7) came over for dinner one evening. When he finished eating about 3 pounds of sloppy joes, he looked up at me and said, “Thought you didn’t eat meat.” 

“I don’t,” I said.

“What’s this then?”

“That’s soy protein.”

“Is not,” he said. Then he emptied the bowl of Mrs. Miller's Sloppy Joes, vegetarian style, onto his plate.

Just beyond his place, at the end of our road, is a very nice woman who farms alone. She grows crops and tends cows come rain, shine, or miserable blizzard. She’s frisky, strong, and warm-hearted. One weekend she called and invited us to come for dinner on Saturday night. She’d invited all the neighbors. “We’re having turkey, gravy, and potatoes. If you want vegetables, bring your own.” I figured I could do without them for one meal. Besides, she makes the best cherry pie in Iowa.

I will never live here long enough to understand the country paradox. A farmer will fight to save a lamb during a difficult birth. He'll spend the night freeing a heifer trapped in a washout on Old Man’s Creek. Then, he'll turn around and slit the animal's throat.

Your Easter Ham?

Still, I won’t make an issue out of killing animals, not until I go home and change out of my new leather shoes.