It's True, Katydid Did Come To Visit

On this particular sultry, late summer night, I'm surrounded by a symphony of nature's sound.

I step outside and into my backyard, pausing to listen. What is that strange call?

Not crickets. And not the Cicadas. Their soaring daytime serenades end come nightfall.

Small birds? Giant tree crickets? Bats? Do bats make calls like that?

The call sounded like a cross between a bird and a cricket. A new species?

New to me, anyway. I just moved into this Courthouse cottage a few months ago.

The stacatto song comes from every direction in the trees above, accentuating a constant chorus of crickets from the ground below.

Back inside the cottage, I suddenly hear one of the strange calls up close and personal. It seems to echo off the walls.

Where was it? More importantly, what was it? It's definitely loud.

Sounds like it's coming from the window. Not outside the window, but by the window, behind the blinds -- and inside the cottage.

"It" called out again, two piercing staccato calls, one right after the other.

I approach the blinds, again the thought surfacing that perhaps it's a bat? And as soon as I lift the blinds, the thing will come screaming for my neck.

No, I tell myself. It's probably just a baby bat. A cute, little, furry guy looking for his mama. He'll want to make friends.

I could name him Flappy. He could rest on my shoulder and we could watch TV together. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship.

I lift the blinds. Suddenly, I see him on the couch just below the air conditioner.

Not a baby bat. A green leaf-like insect, nearly 3 inches long, just looking up at me.

It resists climbing onto my finger, but doesn't run away -- or fly, or jump, or skip, or whatever it does for locomotion.

The creature climbs onto the air conditioner. And it calls out again a couple times, as if yelling to his pals outside, "Hey, get me outta here!"

So, I do my research. He's a Katydid, of which there are thousands of different species in the world.

More specifically, this fella is a True Katydid -- also known as a Bush Cricket, which seems fair since he's related to crickets and grasshoppers.

And it's his kin folks that are taking the instrumental lead in the symphony outside my open cottage door and window this summer night.

Katydids are rarely seen. Mostly heard. I feel privileged.

Now, a Giant Katydid can grow as big as a human hand, I see from the picture on my phone.

Katydids inhabit late summer and early fall nights from New Jersey down to Mississippi.

And they spend their summer nights pretty much like most earthly creatures of a certain age: they seek a mate.

But that's where the romantic similarities between the Bush Crickets and humans end.

The Katydids sing to each other by rubbing their forewings together and listen for a response with the ears on their front legs.

Not even in my brief time traveling with a small, one-ring circus that featured various sideshow attractions, did I ever encounter such an oddity.

In summers past, I'm sure I've heard the Katydids' distinct call, but just took it for granted as part of the summer night soundtrack.

Instead of Flappy, I go with Chirpy. Now, Chirpy is clinging to the ceiling in the kitchen. He's either hungry or has repositioned so he can see the TV better.

I figure it's the latter. As I settle down to watch Batman vs. Superman, my new pal starts with the shrill chirps again.

I glance at him. Do you mind? I ask. He's quiet.
Do you see any ears on my legs?

While he's looking and thinking, I resume watching the movie, glad to have the company.

Meet Chirpy.