We periodically feed this cat who lives a few doors down. She tends to eat and run, so we named her Dine and Dash. Or, if you prefer, Dine ‘n’ Dash.
Yesterdat, I was working upstairs and I heard her downstairs, yowling at the top of her little cat lungs. I eventually went down to see what the fuss was about. She’d returned the feeding favour:
It was an enormous locust or cricket or grasshopper. I don’t know how to tell the difference. But seriously, it was as long as my hand. I could have hired this one out to do stunt work in that Hilary Swank movie. Get a million of these badboys, and you’ve got yourself a plague of Biblical proportion. I searched my memory, and this is probably twice the size of the next biggest insect I’ve ever seen outside of a zoo.
As cat’s will, Dine ‘n’ Dash grew bored with her prey, and didn’t want to eat it or otherwise finish it off. I gently swept it into our dust pan and deposited it on the deck. It walked, with the plodding pace of a war veteran in chronic pain, into the fields beyond our house.