Friday, February 10, 2012

Not strictly book, or art, or plant-related.

It seems that I'm going off on more and more tangents in this thing. Ah well. Time fixes all things.

Let me preface this anecdote with the fact that last night, hubby received a gift of turnips from the head brewer of the local brewery. (Who happens to be a pretty cool guy, but that's another story.) The turnips were bloody huge, about the size of a baby's head, and fresh out of the ground.

This morning, I stumbled downstairs in a zombie mode, to fix breakfast. After a few minutes of that, a realization struck- something wasn't in its place in the kitchen. The little blue cricket keeper, same one we used for Timmy-Berry's food, was on the counter. I peered inside, to see a turnip end, and a couple of pieces of paper towels with tiny, cricket-like poop on them.

"Why did he put a cricket into a keeper rather than releasing it outside..?" I wonder sleepily, and proceed peering into it to see the cricket.

But there is no cricket. Instead, there is a tiny, half inch long centipede, that must've come in with the greens on those turnips hubby was cleaning yesterday. It was munching on the turnip's end. This made me tear up a little.

You know you've married a right person when you see them value a life of a critter, no matter how small.

Edit: The centipede was actually found in the bathtub. Who knows where it came from. My point stands.