This calls to mind a question I've been hoping to pose to men of erudition. Do these cidadas cry "oshii tsuku-tsuku," or do they cry "tsuku-tsuku oshii?" This interpretation, I believe, has no small bearing on the study of cicadas. Such questions comprise a realm where humans excel over cats, a point of great human pride. If the answer is not yet know, then let men muse for a time. In either case, my cicada capture sport carries on unimpeded. Guided by their cries, I climb up into the branches, where my quarry's absorbed in song, and lunge in for the capture. This may sound simple, but in fact it's nothing but. On my four legs, I traverse the earth at least on par, I believe, with most other beasts. And based on simple numbers, it stands to reason I move about better than two-legged men. Climbing trees, though, is hardly my forté. Setting aside monkeys, who excel in this field, even men, who are descendant from monkeys, are not an incompetent lot. It is, of course, an unnatural untertaking, in defiance of gravity, so there's no real shame in incompetence. Nevertheless, when it comes to cicada capture, some degree of competence is called for. Fortunately, I am endowed with sharp claws. I manage my way up the trees, but it's not as easy as it might look. To make matters worse, cicadas fly. Unlike with the mantis, a cicada taken flight is a cicada lost. There's no guarantee that my tree-climbing effort won't all go for naught. Finally, I also risk the occasional splash of urine. I can't but think it's even aimed at my eyes. I can deal with loss of my quarry, but being doused with urine is just too much. What psychological condition, I wonder, triggers what physiological mechanism to trigger this spurt of urine as they take to the air. Perhaps it's driven by angst. Or perhaps it's tactical, buying a moment of time to elude a sudden threat. That would number it with similar such animal actions - the squid squirting its ink, the ruffian exposing his tattoo, or the master spouting off in Latin.