Peter Secada Cicada ...

A typical Saturday morning around here ... Mom was up early to meet with her quilt group so ... when she's up, that means I'm up. Mom put me in the back yard so that I could ... ahem ... fertilize, and she headed back up to have breakfast.

As a recovering helicopter mom, she rarely leaves me to my own device, but on the occasional Saturday, she will let me out of her sight for a few minutes. Today was that day ...

I'd been outside when Mom peeked through the kitchen window long enough to see me sniffing around in the grass ... she was probably thinking I was simply rooting around for yard-bage. A few minutes later, when she looked again, I was still nosing around in the the same spot. Big surprise, she was by my side in a flash to see what I was up to.

I'd been found out ... she sees that I've discovered a cicada, and I was amusing myself by holding it hostage. Stick in the mud that she is, Mom liberated the cicada by shooing me back allowing the cicada to flit off and skirt danger ... but then there's me ... hot on his tail. Mom tends to approach these situations by merely removing me from the offending circumstance, so when I wouldn't let the little creature alone, Mom picked me and took me up the stairs, intent on distracting me with breakfast.

But there was just one fatal flaw in her plan ... the moment she put me down, as elastic as a steel spring, I raced across the deck, down the stairs, and across the yard in pursuit of my prey.

Alas, by then my quarry had slipped away ...