not easy being green

Being an insect is tough.

That is not a testimonial, just a fact. A fact that was rather tragic for the bug starring in today's essay.

Like every boy who ever lived, insects fascinated me with their wide-range of shape, color, and locomotion. I upped my bug game during my sophomore year in high school when Mr. Kilmer required each of us to create an insect collection.

What had been a juvenile diversion now had a rigorous analytical framework. Insects were once a random mixture of bugs. Now, they were magically turned into categories of beetles, flies, moths, and grasshoppers -- not to mention their just-as-fascinating young grubs, maggots, and caterpillars.

There are some insects that live amongst us that are not great neighbors. When I saw this guy in my bedroom, I thought he was one of them.

At first glance, it looked like an assassin bug -- the carrier of chagas, a debilitating tropical disease. The disease is not as common as dengue here. But cases are periodically reported.

It is not a disease you would like to put on your infection résumé. Immediate symptoms of fatigue, fever, and muscles aches that can lead to a life-time disability where the disease slowly attacks the heart and the tissues of the gastrointestinal tract.  

The disease is transmitted by the assassin bug biting a sleeping human around the mouth or the eyes. That is not the method of transmission, though.

When the bug feeds, it defecates. Because the bite itches, the person will rub their lip or eye while simultaneously wiping the feces into the bite, mouth, or eyes. The virus lurks in the feces. And the disease begins.

For good reason, assassin bugs are not welcome in my bedroom.

This little parable is about fear. Without looking further, I labeled the assassin bug as something to fear, and did what the powerful do to the weak. I crushed it in my hand. It accepted its fate without any struggle -- as is often the fate of the weak.

Only after I had assassinated what I thought was an assassin bug did I start researching what I had done. I made a grave error. Or, at least, it was grave for the insect.

It turns out that it was not an assassin bug. It was not even a bug. All of you have probably already identified it as a beetle. And you are correct. It is a beetle that takes its name from its over-sized antennae. Longhorn beetle.

I had killed without cause. Or, at least, the reason I killed it was based on a false assumption. But I was not wrong in killing it.

I know a bit about this family of beetles. I had several in my high school insect collection. As adults they are amusing to watch with those more-hat-than-cattle antennae.

They problem is with its young. As larvae, longhorn beetles are very destructive. They are borers. Not bores -- the type of people who unanimously parrot back what they heard from some television news commentator, as Joel Stein put it: "I have never been part of of a more heated conversation in which everyone agrees." 

Borers. Wood borers, to be precise. The young of the longhorn beetle love wood. Living trees. Untreated wood. They are a pest wherever they breed.

My house has very little wood in it. But there is some. Doors. Bed headboards. Desks. And, most precious of all, books. 

So, what sense of guilt momentarily existed after the coup de grâce quickly dissipated as soon as I discovered that comical beetle could have been up to no good.

My mother's side of the family lived in Canada long enough that I can claim some loyalty to steal just one line from its anthem.

When it comes to insects: "I stand on guard for thee."