Icky the Indestructible Madagascar Hissing Cockroach

“Right off the top of my head, I would say it’s a terrible idea to bring home a hissing cockroach.”

My nine-year-old daughter tossed her curly head and prepared for battle. It wouldn’t be outright rebellion—no, that would be undignified. Sara preferred a quiet but relentless clashing of wits, during which she systematically dismantled any argument I was foolish enough to present.

“Dad took me to the reptile show and it is the cutest thing! I even have a name for it already. I say ‘it’ because I don’t know the gender quite yet.”

First, I wondered how on earth she would determine the gender, and then I made a mental note to thank my husband, yet again, for setting into motion a total fiasco.

“Do they actually charge money for one of these things?”

My daughter’s expression slowly turned to appalled disbelief.

“Of course they do! Icky costs $5. I’d pay for it myself if you ever remembered to give me an allowance.”

Her tone was still respectful and she was right, so I let that go.

“Icky?”

She beamed. “Yes, Icky. It’s adorable. It’s three inches long and it hisses!”

I felt a headache coming on.

“For any particular reason?”

“What?”

“It hisses?”

Her mouth dropped open (apparently there was no limit to what I didn’t know).

“When it’s looking for a mate!”

I nodded carefully, biding my time.

“Which we are not providing.”

“That, Mother, would be foolish.”

So we agreed on one thing.

“Where will this thing live? On your pillow? On a leash?”

Her golden brown eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“You know I have a bug carrier. It can live in there.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Not much roaming room!”

“Well, it's three inches long and not much of a roamer.”

My husband walked into the room, then turned and shot back out as though he’d witnessed a beheading.

“So how long do these things live?”

Sara spread her arms wide. “They can live indefinitely!”

Horrified, I muttered that if her father wanted to take her back to the reptile show, and if she was certain she could provide adequate accommodations, I really didn’t want to hear anymore about Icky. Icky would be her responsibility.

And so that very evening, the bug carrier appeared on a shelf in the kitchen, occupied by the ugliest torpedo-shaped insect that ever lived. Icky the Madagascar Hissing Cockroach had arrived.

Naturally, my first question was why he (Sara determined, somehow, that it was a he) had to live in the kitchen.

“It’s more likely that I’ll remember to bring him dead flies if I see the bug carrier and remember that he’s in there.”

Of course; she had to remember that he was in there. I asked what else he might eat if we found that we were running low on dead flies.

“Well, dog food!” Was I raised by wolves? Was I born in a cave?

“Dog food. What about water?”

With a nod, she produced what looked like the lid from a mayonnaise jar, filled it with water, then, spilling most of it on the way, placed the “bowl” carefully on the floor of the tiny bug carrier.

Icky seemed, frankly, indifferent.

And so time passed. Some afternoons, Sara took the bug carrier outside so Icky could “air out.” Very sporadically, she hunted for flies, dead or alive, and dropped them next to Icky in case he wanted a snack. He never did.

Every time I walked by, I checked his “water bowl,” which he tipped over daily. Apparently Icky was uncommonly clumsy. Disgusted and repulsed, I gave him fresh water, day after day. When I fed the dog, I threw a nugget in the carrier for Icky.

Icky didn’t come when Sara called him, and he didn’t do tricks except for tipping over his water bowl. But he did hiss! When she remembered that she had a hissing cockroach, Sara thought he was delightful!

And then it happened. Had my fervent prayers been answered? I had to be sure.

One morning, I noticed that Icky lay unusually still. I walked by the bug carrier again and again, on any pretense, and sure enough, he hadn’t moved! Was it possible? Had this burden been taken from me? Had he—expired?

Should I tell Sara? Would she notice if the bug carrier just disappeared? Should I say Icky was “airing out” indefinitely in an undisclosed location? I forced myself to calm down. I had to wait. These creatures were notorious for thriving in the most horrific circumstances.

It could be a ruse. And according to Sara, Icky was quite shrewd.

So I waited. I checked on him each morning and each evening for two days, and rejoiced at the lack of movement. At the end of the second day, I called Sara into the kitchen and announced, solemnly, that Icky had passed away.

She pressed her face to the netting, incredulous.

“What? I just fed him and he was fine!”

Oh my poor, confused child. She hadn’t spared a single thought for Icky in at least a week.

“I know; it’s upsetting.”

She opened the flap on the bug carrier and tried to examine him more closely.

“I just don’t understand it. They’re supposed to be hardy.”

“Maybe he was elderly.”

She paused to give me an exasperated look.

“He clearly wasn’t elderly!”

Oh.

“Well, anyway, do you want to bury him or what?”

Sara sighed the heavy sigh of a child who has lost her pet hissing cockroach.

“I don’t know. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Me either.” I managed to maintain a blank expression although I was actually dancing a spirited Irish jig inside my head.

“Well, honey, I’ll take care of it. You should finish your homework.”

Despondent, she agreed, and walked back to her room.

Before the sound of her footsteps had faded all the way, I scooped up the bug carrier and ran to the garage. I didn’t know what I’d do with the ugly thing but I sure wanted it out of the kitchen! I stuck it on a shelf in the garage and promptly forgot about it.

Well, two glorious weeks passed; glorious mostly because I was no longer bound to a three-inch-long hissing cockroach. It was mid summer, and I could amuse myself in other ways besides looking for dead flies and refilling a water bowl that was really a mayonnaise jar lid.

And after a suspiciously brief period, Sara accepted the situation. Icky was out of our lives.

Now in Northern California in mid summer, the temperature in the garage can reach a stifling 100 degrees or more. For this very reason, I only went in there to get in my car or to start the washing machine.

One Saturday afternoon, about two weeks later, when the temperature outside was closing in on the century mark, I dashed to the garage to get something out of the car, and—froze. Did I see a subtle movement out of the corner of my eye? Impossible. I shook my head and reached for the book I had left in the car.

But there it was again. I spun and—no!

There was Icky, inside the bug carrier, spry as ever, climbing the netting. I guess he liked to roam after all.

I must have shrieked because suddenly Sara was beside me, crooning about how glad she was that he was all right and rushing to get him back inside the house where he’d be more comfortable!

Within two minutes he was settled, back in the kitchen, alongside a nugget of dog food and fresh water.

Predictably, it didn’t take him long to knock over the bowl.

And that’s the story of Icky the Indestructible Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. He lived for another full year, at which time he seemed to expire again, though this time I was wary.

Sara was right—he was shrewd.

But no, thankfully, he stayed dead, at least long enough for us to hold a funeral and bid him a final farewell.