At the behest of nathalie with an h, I headed across the blogosphere to help Nezza with an insect question.

She had photographed what at first looked pretty much like a bee, nice and plump and buzzing about and doing all things with a very bee-like demeanor and display.  But looks can be deceiving, especially when it comes to flies.

What Nezza photographed happens to be either a bee fly or a syrphid fly.  Masters of disguise even as lower order insects go, this diverse group of creatures has filled every possible niche of mimicry imaginable—and especially when it comes to looking like higher order insects like ants, wasps and bees.

Called a bee killer (a.k.a. robber fly or asilid fly; Mallophora fautrix), this happens to be a predator that will attack any flying insect.  It isn’t as large as the giant robber fly (Promachus hinei) I posted a few weeks ago, but the bee killer is just as bold in that it will chase anything it thinks it can overpower.

Hover flies (a.k.a. syrphid flies; unidentified) cover a lot of territory when it comes to looking like anything but a fly.  Although completely harmless, they perfectly impersonate some of the most troublesome stingers: bumble bees, yellow jackets and hornets to name a few.

As I explained to Nezza, flies can’t hide their identities despite their best efforts to look like another species.  As all flies go, they still only have one pair of wings (bees, wasps, dragonflies and all other higher-order insects have two pairs).  Flies of this sort also have short antennae (not true of all flies, but true of the suborder Brachycera that happens to include most flies; members of the suborder Nematocera, which includes crane flies, gnats, mosquitoes and midges, have longer antennae).

This also brings to mind a recent experience with xocobra as he pointed out the abundance of flying ants around his house.  While standing in the garage enjoying a cold adult beverage and camaraderie, one such menace flitted by and landed atop the hood of one of the cars.  He immediately pointed it out and noted it came from the same species of ant to which he had referred.

But it was no ant at all; it was a fly.  More specifically, it was a type of picture-winged fly in the genus Delphinia (probably Delphinia picta, although I only saw it briefly).  Looking very much like a winged ant in color and shape, I couldn’t blame him for letting his eyes state what seemed terribly obvious.

The next time you see a bee or wasp or dragonfly or ant, ponder for a moment if you are seeing what you think you are seeing.  It’s quite possible—and in many ways probable—that you are looking at a member of the order Diptera, a true fly, and you happen to be graced with viewing the splendid diversity of mimicry that exists in these primitive creatures.

I hope Mom will forgive me for publishing this.  It’s something I felt worth saying, yet I knew her words communicated the truth far better than I could…

I intend to visit the family farm this weekend.  It’s the first opportunity I’ve had in months given my hectic work schedule (every other weekend on call and every week with a full plate).

After sending her an e-mail saying as much and asking how she and Dad were doing, this is the reply I received:

C’mon….we will be delighted to see you. Things are going here. Your father is sick just about every day. [...] He would have to have lots of tests to determine the cause and he doesn’t want to go there. I figure if things get bad enough he will give in, but he’s been so physically miserable for so long he really doesn’t relish more medical treatments to prolong his agony. Can’t say I blame him. When I look into his haunted pain filled eyes I can’t blame him at all.

We just went through the whole tumor saga.  For years prior to that, he’s been on medications galore to treat all sorts of ailments: chronic acute cellulitis in the legs that can kill him if released into the bloodstream, blood pressure and clot issues, and a menagerie of other problems.

Truth be told, I’m with Mom on this one.  I sincerely and unequivocally trust in one absolute adage in such cases: Quality is far more important than quantity.

If my life is to be measured, let it be measured by joy, by love, by value, by worth.  Don’t let it be measured by the number of years I lived.

Should I suffer a decade of painful, degrading, inhumane survival that scarcely deserves the name ‘living’ or should I enjoy a year or two of memorable, blessed, wonderful moments wherein I can truly be called alive?

For nathalie with an h who proclaimed after my last snake post that she would never again go near the water at White Rock Lake…

A fools errand.  That’s how this morning’s walk felt.  I decided to venture to the western shores for a change of scenery.

That would only be wise in cooler weather and later in the day.  As it was, it put me at a major disadvantage considering anything on or near the lake that caught my attention required me to face into the morning sun, scorching brightness still low on the horizon and blinding me at every turn.

Now I remember why I don’t go there for morning walks…

And it’s summer.  In Texas.  Standing in direct sunshine this time of year is begging for misery.  The sweat pouring from every part of my body kept that thought at the forefront of my mind.

Yet despite the terrible conditions of being hot as hell and unable to see much of anything, let alone photograph it, I did find a nice surprise this morning that deserves attention.

Perched atop a log trying to grab some warmth before beginning its day, this diamondback water snake (Nerodia rhombifer) never flinched when passersby thronged to my position to see what I had discovered.  Fortunately for the reptile, no one could get close enough to pose a real threat—although I doubt all the pointing and yelping about snakes and other goings on helped it to relax.

Only a yard/a meter long yet still an adult, this species can grow to almost twice that size, although it seems more common for them to average around the size of this morning’s example.  What I would consider a small snake still caused a great deal of commotion amongst those who set eyes upon it, including the assumption that because I was photographing it, I must be an expert, something that led to the ubiquitous and expected question: “Is that a water moccasin?”^[1][3]

Had it been a cottonmouth (what most people mean when they use the term ‘water moccasin’)^[4], it would have earned its name by displaying the brilliant white inside of its mouth as a warning for us to stay away (we were at least close enough for that response).  No such display was forthcoming though, for this happened to be something more common yet less dangerous than a cottonmouth.

This species has no venom, although the entire line of water snakes do have rather quarrelsome personalities.  To prove it, the diamondback water snake first resorts to emitting a foul odor with excrement.

If that doesn’t frighten you away, then it will bite.  I assure you that will hurt as their teeth are designed to grab and hold slippery prey, meaning they will tear flesh due in no small part to the backward-facing orientation of their teeth.  But once the bleeding stops, the danger has passed.

Beautiful and enticing as all serpents are, I returned a few hours later to see if the snake could still be found.  Indeed, it had only turned around a bit so sunshine could hit the other side, but otherwise it remained right where it had been all morning.

Thankfully, I noticed few saw the creature unless someone was already there and entranced by it.  I paused only briefly to snap that photo, then I walked to the far end of the bridge and watched from a safe and discreet distance.

Of the few dozen people who passed by that spot while I stood vigil, none saw the reptile.  That made me happy for once, that no one noticed, for people generally become dangerous when confronted with a snake, especially a water snake.  Letting it be in peace so it could go on about the business of its day seemed a far better alternative to the inevitable violence that would ensue if more people had seen it.

— — — — — — — — — —

[1] Correct me if I’m wrong, but why is it that someone with a camera somehow becomes the available expert under such circumstances?  I’m tickled on a regular basis by those who ask me such questions, as though I obviously know since I have a camera in my hand and took notice of whatever intriguing thing begs the question.^[2]

[2] Okay, I admit it’s likely under most circumstances that I know the answer, but that’s just because I’m such a nerd about these things.  I want to know.  I want to understand.  I want to appreciate.  That’s not true of everyone with a camera though, so what’s the deal?

[3] The most common misidentification of snakes stems from most people assuming any serpent in the water is a cottonmouth.  Nonvenomous water snakes are far more common yet suffer the plague of unnecessary death in no small part because people assume any swimming snake is a cottonmouth.  I wish I could change this.

[4] Ugh!  I’ve never seen a water moccasin in my life.  Know why?  They don’t technically exist.  It’s actually a colloquialism of some kind (stemming from a book published in the 19^th century).  Truth be told, “water moccasin” is a generic name used for pretty much any snake in the water.  The venomous one you need to watch out for is a cottonmouth, a pit viper and the only poisonous water snake in North America.^[5]

[5] Because cottonmouths are quite rare when compared to the nonvenomous water snakes that most people see, the statistical truth is that you are unlikely to see a poisonous water snake when compared to the likelihood of seeing a harmless one.  Almost all sightings in North America are of water snakes and, therefore, of harmless reptiles.

As alluring as an aphrodisiac, I find myself drawn to this plant each time I walk the eastern shore of White Rock Lake south of Sunset Bay.  Only within a few steps does its presence grab the senses by sight and smell, a visual and olfactory pheromone as sweet to the eyes and nose as honey is to the tongue.

All about its location near the water rests a fog of enticement that can be tasted as easily as it is smelled.  The eyes simply draw one in, rest one from disregard to enjoyment, and all the while scent chains one to a position near what can only be described as a song tempting awareness with bait of beauty and beguilement.

And the bumble bees seem to think likewise.

The plant is called a buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis).  Its aroma strikes me as unmistakable and unavoidable.

Brownbelted bumble bees (Bombus griseocollis) surround it during this visit, although previous calls on this place seem to include other species, albeit that assumption is unverified at present.

Nevertheless, I always find this plant virtually covered with bumble bees, each flitting about from flower to flower, each busy with the accumulation of pollen.

Having savored this magnificent plant with every sense my body offers, I know why they claim it for their own, savor it in every way, cover it daily with their intent.  Bewitching understates its magic.

al-Zill has discovered his own tail.  This results in some rather entertaining chase scenes.

I’ve yet to capture any photos of the fun since I usually know it’s happening only when he bounces off a wall or runs into something; then when I get up to investigate, he stops.

But the fun he has lends itself to some extremely hilarious escapades.

He becomes enthralled with trying to catch his tail and even tries sneaking up on it.  This includes crouching down and peeking over his own shoulder as he watches it twitch from side to side.

He gives a little butt shake as cats are wont to do when hunting, then he makes the leap and tumbles in a spiral of uncontrolled folly.

This can go on for several minutes before something else catches his attention, be it hunger or thirst or a toy or another cat—or me.

And on the subject of al-Zill…

His neurological problems have diminished greatly since I rescued him.  They’re not gone, mind you, but they’re better.

Still, when I’ve been holding him and move to put him down, he becomes like jelly and sometimes falls while trying to gain his footing.  From time to time he has problems trying to run or walk.  He even falls over or off of things every now and then, and I don’t mean in the normal way felines do these things.

He’s still making progress, however, and I think being in a stable environment with good care and food has helped him.

According to the vets, he will never be free of this plague, never be fully sure of what his body will do in response to the sometimes chaotic and random messages his mind sends out.

At least I know he’s no longer threatened by the dangers of being outside under such conditions.

In a most fantastic yet perplexing manner, Grendel’s condition suddenly reversed course in the past few days.

His weight loss stopped, his shaking disappeared, his overall demeanor improved…

Why this is I can’t say.  Hell, I can’t even say what ailment vexed him these last weeks.

Then again, several veterinarians are similarly perplexed, so I’m in good company.

Nathalie and I recently spoke about this during our regular visit to the neighborhood Starbucks.  You see, one of her dogs has been ill for a spell, progressively succumbing to old age and tired bones.

We spoke that morning of how a sick loved one like this wrestles one into the pits of despair, the curse of depression.

It’s the same I felt when my father faced the danger of aggressive tumors in his head, when my grandmother walked the lonely walk toward death, when Derek battled those last hopeless weeks against a foe he could not overcome, and when Henry struggled against the menacing torment of more than twenty years of life that a cat rarely enjoys.

So these weeks since Grendel’s health spiraled down the drain have been dangerously painful, horribly difficult and ravenously abusive.

His weight is low, so much so that I feel I might break him each time I pick him up, his skin easily giving way to bones underneath no longer shielded by fat and muscle.  There are times when I believe I might well throw him across the room accidentally as I expect more substance where none exists.

Nevertheless, he reached a turning point over the weekend that I hope leads to a mending, a recovery.

Things are not what they seem, however, for he still faces an uphill battle and many challenges, not the least of which is the specter of this devil returning in the future.

We still don’t know what it was—what it is.

At 9.45am on Saturday, June 23 2007, I killed a man. A perfectly ordinary man, on a perfectly ordinary summer’s day. CCTV pictures show him entering the station, unremarkable among all the passengers going to the West End. He waited at the front of the platform until he could hear my train approaching, then he calmly stepped down on to the tracks and looked directly at me as he waited for the impact.

This made me cry, made me think, made me feel.

Go read it: Last year I killed a man

Monk parakeet (a.k.a. quaker parrot; Myiopsitta monachus)

“Is he taking pictures of the grass?”

“Looks like it.”

“How weird.”

They didn’t notice the parakeet rummaging about the ground beneath a shade tree.  All they noticed was that I stood there taking photos of something they failed to see.

Male green anole (Anolis carolinensis)

“Dude, are you taking pictures of your patio fence?”

“No.  There’s a lizard standing here challenging me.  I thought I might snap a few pictures.”

He looks at the reptile before returning his gaze to me and saying, “Just a lizard?”

“Yes.”

He sees just a lizard, just a small, insignificant life that offers nothing for his world.

I see a master of his territory, a predator controlling the local insect population, a marvelous creature with the climbing ability of a gecko and a color-changing ability superior to that of a chameleon.  I see a grand living thing.

Female eastern pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis)

“What are you taking pictures of?”

“Everything.  Birds, trees, flowers, lizards, insects—”

“Oh, cool.  Seen any interesting bugs?”

“There were some beautiful dragonflies around the marsh back there.”

“Really?  We must have missed them.”

They missed a plethora of life, so many insects filling the air and foliage that I found it impossible to count them.  All they noticed was the man taking photos as he walked the edge of the marsh and woodlands.

Male muscovy duck (Cairina moschata)

“Wait, Mom.  I wanna take a picture of the ducks.”

“They’re always here, sweetheart.  Let’s look for something more interesting for you photograph.”

Her daughter noticed, noticed how uncommon the common can be, how beautiful nature is in all its forms even when we see it day after day.

I noticed, especially when Elvis walked right up to me to see what I was doing kneeling in the grass.  He and I have developed a bond of trust such that he’ll come to me to investigate and will gladly stand next to me in case I have something to offer.  He knows I won’t hurt him.  And he knows I never ignore him.

Male swan goose (Anser cygnoides)

They climb out of their car and walk directly to where the swan geese are sleeping and preening.

The father lets his two small children chase the animals, each screaming in joy as the birds honk and flap their wings as they run.

I worry as there are goslings mixed in with the crowd.

I hope one of the parents beats up your brats, I think to myself.

Then I watch as a large male knocks over the young boy and bites at him before fleeing in the opposite direction.  The child screams in shock or pain, or both, and I laugh to myself.

They don’t notice the beauty of these creatures.  Both children and their father see nothing more than entertainment, creatures to be chased and abused to satisfy a need to be cruel, to be hateful.

Great egret (Ardea alba)

A dog rushes headlong toward ducks lounging in the shade at the lake’s edge.  The owner stands by and does nothing.

Wings flap and flutter as panic strikes the group.  They all retreat toward the water as they take flight.

The reeds next to the flocking birds hides something else, something besides the water lapping at the shore.

Frightened by the commotion and the rushing canine, an egret takes flight, limping as it struggles into the air.  Its leg is hurt such that it might be broken.

The dog cares little for such things and its owner even less.  They don’t notice the pain, the limp, or even the unnecessary stress their antics place on these animals.

But I notice.  I shake my head with evident disgust before walking away.  I ignore the dog’s owner as he heaves primitive insults at me for my obvious disapproval.

Male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus)

“I was at the pool yesterday, and there are some really big bees over there by the bridge.”

“You mean the cicada killers?”

I already feel good that he knows what they are.

He continues, “The big wasps, you mean?”

“I guess so,” she replies.

“They’re harmless.  They won’t hurt you.  All they do is kill cicadas.”

By the look on her face, I doubt she believes him.

His response is so calm, so understanding, that I realize he has no intention of doing anything about the second wasp colony a block away from where I live.  He knows they pose no threat, knows they only live for a few months.

I feel a great sense of relief and pride that he notices them, understands them, and has no intention of interfering with their short lives.

It was the winter of 1991.  Several colleagues and I flew to Virginia for a week so that we might complete an important project our employer saw as critical.  We saw it as nothing more than a chance to get out of the office and enjoy a bit of travel.

As fellow employees are wont to do under such circumstances, our comrades in the Richmond office had treated us to a late night of wining and dining that lasted into the wee hours of Friday morning.

Our flight back to Texas meant we needed to be at the airport around noon.  That meant we needed to be up early so we could finish the project in time to go home.

Barely capable of standing and only slightly aware of the world around me, I packed my things before checking to ensure my teammates were ready.

They weren’t.  In fact, they seemed in worse shape than I was, the few I spoke with looking less alive than I felt.

It was going to be a long day.

In lieu of waiting, I headed downstairs to get checked out of the hotel.

That business tended to and still alone, I decided to step outside for a cigarette.

Blustery cold winds greeted me as I pulled up the collar on my jacket and braced myself against the chill.  An ashen sky full of clouds threatening snow stretched in all directions, and the occasional flake drifted by as though reiterating the promise of what was to come.

The company van idled nearby, so I put my luggage inside before pulling a cigarette from the pack.  I stepped up against the cold brick of the building, fetched the lighter from my pocket, then cupped my hands as I feebly struggled to produce a bit of flame under the wind’s constant onslaught.

After what seemed like an eternity with flame blowing in every direction except toward the end of the cigarette, my gyrations and manipulations paid off when at last the cancer stick sparked to life.

I puffed readily on it while I watched people rush through the cold morning, each one hunched over in an attempt to hold in body heat, each one hugging their arms tightly to their chest as they dashed from the hotel doors to waiting vans, taxis and rental cars.

Only a few times did I notice the somewhat perplexed looks some gave me as they passed, the curious eyebrows raised or the smirks that hid deep desires to point and laugh.

I paid it no mind but instead finished my cigarette before heading back inside.

Making my way through the lobby felt like a clown walking down the aisle during a State of the Union address at the Capitol.  Eyes glanced, whispers echoed quietly, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable.

Was my zipper open?

Had I suddenly grown some grotesque wart on my cheek?

Did I have a booger hanging out of my nose?

The elevator couldn’t arrive fast enough.  Thankfully I seemed to be the only person going upstairs at that moment.

Following a quick walk down the hall once I reached the floor where our rooms were, I desperately knocked on the door of one of my fellow employees.  I felt like I needed a place to hide.

The door opened and I was happy to see most of them had gathered together so they could head downstairs, but Aaron, the one who opened the door, sent a chill down my spine when he burst into uproarious laughter.

From behind him Brad asked, “What the hell is that?”

“What?” I responded.

“Dude, what happened to your mustache?”

My hand reflexively landed on my face as I tried to determine what they were so entertained by.  Alas, something did feel wrong with my mustache, so I turned immediately and walked into the bathroom.

To my horror, the mirror revealed why I would never return to this hotel: half of my mustache had been burned off.  One full side stood in ghoulish contrast to the other, a half bit of singed and mutilated facial hair that looked like some disease remnant.

The cold wind had cloaked the flame’s attack and kept me from feeling it as it lashed my face and reduced one side of my mustache to a smoldering cinder.

I’ve never been back to Virginia since then.

Because I haven’t the wherewithal to offer more substance than paltry photos, at least at this exact moment…

Female short-winged grasshopper (Dichromorpha elegans)

Female crane fly (subgenus Yamatotipula; Tipula furca)

Giant robber fly (Promachus hinei)

That last photo is interesting in that it’s the first time I’ve been able to capture an image of the most common species of giant robber fly in the state of Texas.

Although they can inflict a painful bite if mishandled, robber flies pose little threat to people; they do, however, pose a significant threat to other insects.

True flies with no stinger and only one pair of wings, robbers are predators—and giant robbers will attack any insect that flies, including wasps, bees, grasshoppers and dragonflies.

Their prowess stems from their ability to capture prey in flight, overwhelm them with strength, and deliver a deadly bite filled with acidic juices (something normally targeted at the head).  The robber then drinks its meal in peace.

Most robber flies are considered beneficial to a degree in that they target other pests such as flies, beetles and wasps; others are not so beneficial since they target bees and other beneficial insects.

Giant robbers prefer to travel the middle of the road: they target all prey equally so long as it’s large enough, so they might just as easily destroy a local wasp nest as they would a beehive (the former being good and the latter being not so good).

This one happened to perch on the tree outside my patio one day.  When first I spied it, I thought it a bit of dead leaf or other debris stuck to a branch.

Then it flew after a cicada-killer wasp—a female that easily knocked it aside, I might add, for her size dwarfed the fly and gave her a distinct advantage.  That’s when I realized it was something far more interesting than dried vegetation.