So, my cat Shaylee eats crickets. I know. Yuck. The thing is, she won’t eat the legs. Again. I know. Double-yuck. My unfortunate part in all of this bloody chaos is to clean up the mess left behind by my
fur-covered psychopath lovely pet. It is not a job that I relish, in any way, shape, or form. If I find a cricket, I will gently catch it, and put it outside — after a stern lecture on its ill-advised decision to enter my patrolled abode … with the hopes it will scurry off, never to return to these murder-filled halls. But all too often, Shaylee is more observant, and certainly faster, than I could ever be. Which leads to cricket legs being scattered about the house for me to find. Let me be clear. Just. The. Legs.
I hate my life.
My money says Shaylee considers herself a connoisseur of only the tastiest and juciest parts of the insect world, a distinction which you fail to appreciate.
This isn’t to say she isn’t a jerk – she is, after all, a cat, and all cats are jerks. Some just hide it better than others.
Perhaps for Christmas she’ll buy you one of those bug vacuum thingies that I see advertised as being sold “Only On TV!” to help with the clean up. Leave the TV on at night to old “Golden Girl” reruns and see if she takes the hint.
Jiminy would be proud of you!