At this time of year in NoVa, the crickets get aggressive in their desire to share your space, hopping through any open door at any time, hot on your heels.

Ours are surprisingly brazen. They don’t just hang out in the shadows. We’re not swarmed with them or anything, but a couple of times a week, one decides to announce his presence.

So tonight, as I was prepping to head to the basement, I turned around and saw one between me and the stairs. I swear it was staring at me, like an Old West gunslinger. Or possibly the Road Runner.

I put my hands in my shoes for controlled swatting, then creeped closer. I lifted my hand and made my move.

Hop … hop … “is that all you got?” the cricket seemed to be asking. He had chosen his escape route well, landing just under the sofa. He stayed there, as if to taunt me further, like John Cleese’s Frenchman in Holy Grail.

But the cricket didn’t know the room very well. He certainly didn’t know that the sofa has felt under each leg, and that means it slides smoothly on hardwood. I got my hand-shoe ready, crouched, and put my head against the arm of the sofa. One slow and steady push, then a quick smack.

Of course, I made quick work out of tossing the hubris victim out the door. Didn’t want any more to come in.