wolfie and the sneak

They got me. I knew they would but I didn't want to pay attention to the warnings. I wanted to believe green meant go. I wanted the large, luscious leaves to be a sign of solidarity: me and them. I wanted the squash bugs out of our lives so my plants could go on living blissfully, healthily, as squash producing symbols of fertility.
Sure I found the eggs all over the place. I squished 'em, I sprayed 'em, I picked the bugs off and stomped them into the ground. They are fighters, I'll tell you what. You get a sad little squash plant and it must scream out in pain, calling in all the diseases and bugs it can to put it out of its waning life of chlorophyll and sun bathing.
So I did it. I ripped out 3 sad little wilting, hollow stemmed squash plants. I picked the little baby squashes off them as I sadly eyed their blossoms quickly fading in the grass by the bed. The squashes were hollow, too, and spongy. If I had tried one, I'm sure they would've been tasteless, malnourished little fellas, nothing like their healthy counterparts: firm, crisp, sweet and plump. Almost buttery. Delicious raw, heaven fried. I have one squash plant left. A heavy bloomer with stems wider than the points my fingers make when I squeeze all the tips together. No visible holes. No little nasty red eggs. And you better believe I'm looking at every part of that plant. Out of 6 plants, I have one left. One last bastion of hope to taste the summer delicacy of home-grown squash casserole. If I see even one of those bugs near my baby, you better pray for its soul.