Here a cricket, there a cricket
When I got home from work tonight, passing by the cats’ food area, I saw an enormous cricket floating in one of the water dishes. I assume it was dead; I did not stop to check. I was toying with the idea of getting a picture and labeling it something like, “Water dish: 1, Cricket: 0,” but then I got entirely too grossed out trying to decide if it was dead or alive (it was about three inches long, and no, I’m not kidding), and picked up the water dish and threw the water and cricket onto the lawn outside.
I have no idea if it was dead or alive. I didn’t bother to look.
Anyway, so a little while ago, I saw another cricket—a live one, this time—and I tried to catch it, but it hopped too fast. (I have a 16-ounce blue plastic cup, not unlike the red plastic cup that Sean Penn used to bail out his leaking boat except, well, mine’s blue, his is red, mine catches crickets, and his probably got added to the garbage floating around New Orleans, and, um, digression, digression, digression). I forgot what I was going to say. Oh. Cup. It’s my catch-and-release cup which has seen service all summer long, and will doubtless last another month, maybe two. There are a lot of insects in my part of Richmond, and far too many of them want to live in my apartment.
Well, a few minutes ago, I saw the cricket on my wall, chased and caught him, and discovered that he’s got at least one partner, and I chased that one down and caught him, too. So now I think it’s time to be on the lookout for stray crickets. I know they’ll come inside when it gets cold, but damn, it’s not cold out yet. Sixties, people, sixties! Not cold!
At least they’re not chirping. Last year, one got into my kitchen and kept chirping. I couldn’t find it. I presume it died.
Then again, crickets make great cat toys. The cricket leaps, Gracie leaps, it’s all good, until she grabs it in her paws and its little legs fall off. No more leaping. Bored Gracie.
Yes, I’ll stop now. It’s all Lair’s fault. I was reading his blog before I posted this.
