gregory

in memoriam (a great little bug)

One afternoon in early September, Ville pointed out to me a green beetle perched atop our big monstera plant. He was a small guy, almost unnoticeable on the sizable leaf. Upon closer inspection I saw that he had a shield-shaped shell and nimble, neon-green legs. He must have wiggled into our living room when the window was propped open.

We acknowledged him, but then forgot about him. After all, he wasn’t the first bug to find its way into our apartment; until the temperature really drops I like to keep the windows open as much as possible. I assumed that he would eventually climb back out and continue his voyage outdoors. But he didn’t.

I noticed him again a few weeks later. I was amazed that he was still there – both alive and in our apartment, on the monstera. All at once there was a shift. No longer was he random; I felt innately that his life had intersected with mine.

gregory <3

My routines changed. When I came home from the cafe I would slip off my shoes and go to the windowsill, sometimes without stopping to remove my coat first. I would gently turn over the numerous leaves of our houseplants, trying to see where he was. (This was usually a fruitless endeavor. During the day I rarely saw him). However, in the evening, usually when we were on the couch watching TV, he would make himself known. Either doing laps around the inside rim of a lampshade or crawling nimbly across the wall — lingering by our shoulders, as if he was watching TV with us too.

We named him Gregory.

I did some googling. I found out that Gregory was a shield bug. It wasn’t a coincidence that he had graced our apartment or liked to hang out on our plants. As the weather gets colder, shield bugs look for opportunities to nest inside, feeding off the sap of houseplants. When I read this information my heart began to glow. Gregory had hit the jackpot!! Not only had he made it inside, he had just so happened to pick me. Me with my childhood dream of being an entomologist, me with my tender, tender heart. Once I found out that he had come here on purpose, I was determined to keep him safe. I closed the windows. It started to snow. I didn’t open them again.

The days in Finland continued to grow darker. I became very attached to this sprightly beetle, venturing around the apartment on his own terms. I admired him. He was a free man, a pioneer!

However, with my attachment came dismay. I was terrified that I would accidentally step or sit on him. I had nightmares about spraying him with pesticide. Also, we were expecting a lot of guests. My sister-in-law was spending the night, and a few days later I was going to host my annual weirdass Helsinki Thanksgiving. My mind went to all the worst-case scenarios. Given his nocturnal habits, it was highly likely that Gregory would make an appearance during dinner, or crawl over Niina as she slept.

I was at war with myself. I wanted Gregory to have the best life possible, which to me seemed like free reign of the apartment. But I also desperately wanted him to stay safe, and (selfishly) I wanted to stop worrying about him so much. The next time I saw his sassy wobbling walk across the wall, I put him in a terrarium. It wasn’t great. Just a big tupperware with potting soil on its bottom and a saran-wrap lid with air holes poked in. I gave him slices of kiwi that I had bought on a whim but didn’t actually feel like eating. Later I wondered if there was something subconscious that had compelled me to buy shield bug food, several weeks before I even realized I had a ‘pet.’

he seemed to really enjoy kiwis !

We had our Thanksgiving dinner. I made stuffing and mushroom gravy and pumpkin pie. All of my guests were in a very soft mood, and when we all shared what we were grateful for I cried a little bit. After the main course we had a competition in which I gave everyone a blank map of the US and they had to fill in the names of the fifty states by memory. The groans of dismay when I handed out the maps to my (entirely European) guests was something that I still giggle about.

Gregory escaped from the terrarium twice, but didn’t venture farther than its outer rim. Gently, I put him back. I felt bad for keeping him contained even after Thanksgiving had concluded. I refreshed his makeshift home, adding new soil and some cocktail umbrellas that Tekla had brought to decorate our Thanksgiving drinks. I also made a new lid out of the leftover tinfoil. I poked lots of holes and wondered if, from his perspective, the light coming in might look like stars.

Most of my evenings in the next two weeks were the same. Sitting at the kitchen table, diligently doing my Finnish homework under the orange glow of a himalayan salt lamp, the terrarium beside me. In the snowy silence of the apartment I could hear tiny little ting-tinging footsteps as Gregory did upside-down laps on his tinfoil roof, traversing his metallic, star-strewn sky. It brought me a lot of comfort knowing that he was there. It felt like we were hanging out.

One night, unsure of how long he would be alive, I found it imperative that I told him how much he meant to me. This little unexpected dude had awoken something. I realized that I have been a little desperate for something to take care of, dreaming of a baby or a dog. Though Gregory is most certainly not a baby or a dog, he still chose me, and I loved him in the way that I could. It reminded me of how special it is to take care of something. The paradox of care you yourself receive, when you direct that care to someone else.

Earlier this week I did my usual check to see where he was. I saw that he had crawled on top of one of the mini umbrellas in his terrarium. I removed the tinfoil lid and saw that he had died. I was unsurprised, but still deeply sad. Seeing his body made me realize exactly how much personality he had had, how much space he had taken up. His presence was ephemeral, liquid. Gregory had climbed through the window and washed into every corner of my home.

Part of me wondered if I had done something wrong, if it had been a mistake to keep him confined. But his passing was inevitable. He had likely lived several months longer than he would have out in the wild, just by sheer luck. And even though my sadness is disproportionate to how small a creature Gregory was, I don’t regret my tenderness. His presence is now woven into the fabric of this chapter of my life. He chose this apartment just as we did.