Dragonflies are the masterly pranksters in my fictitious land of
milk and honey koontaka punch.
They’re not evil creatures, as one might suspect from their creepy, disco-ball eyes and ever-present five o’clock shadow, but bored creatures. They will gleefully buzz your head and then lead you down a chicken scratched trail into a pond teeming with leeches, and when you ask why, they will lick their appendages, rub their balding heads, and say, “Well, you did say you were looking for a leech, yes? What? No? Bleach? You need bleach? Well, that’s just silly.” All because their lives are humdrum and they find humans an incredibly gullible species.
Priti will whisper to them– the humans are too close and there are more lessons for them to learn before they may leave— and suddenly the dragonflies romance you onto a barge full of highly intoxicated little people who love karaoke and clog dancing and have no concept of direction. Or they’ll coax you through the chalk drawing doors, which never open to the place you wish to go, but usually lead you directly into to the jazz bar, where you become blissfully intoxicated on koontaka punch, listen to Miles pluck away at his cello, and forget that you even had a different destination.
The dragonflies listen to Priti and kneel before Sigmund, bouncing and clapping their front legs when asked to mislead and confuse humans. Yes, Master! Yes! They are the Igors of the insect world.
They do have a few redeeming qualities. They make lively dinner guests as they always have amusing stories to tell and their petit fours are to die for. Their a cappella humming is an exceptional treat– especially if you catch them while they’re traveling through the canyon of the Wet Divide. And they will never, ever lead you in the direction of a hungry woolly bear. Unless the swarm is led by a brain-washing, suicidal dragonfly like Pepé. Then you’re screwed.
*A side note: I had no idea the cello-playing, wine-drinking cat picture existed until five minutes ago. Love it.