There’s a cricket living in my garage. And with the acoustics in the garage, he sounds like the biggest cricket in the history of cricketdom. He’s not a cricket, he’s a Cricket. He’s Cricketasaurus Rex. The Cricket does not need a prop.
When I walk out into my breezeway (which is now technically a mudroom or perhaps a vestibule, since we’ve turned 2/3’s of the breezeway into part of our kitchen), the Cricket chirps happily away, serenading our grill and snow blower and my golf clubs until I step down out of the house. Then all of the sudden… Nothing.
And I love that. It makes me happy, that Cricket quiet when I open the door. Sort of like an apprehensive hush, like the way a murmuring crowd goes still when the house lights dim or the orchestra raises their bows, meaning the star is about to take the stage. Like maybe it’s just a part of his morning that he waits for’ the girl! The girl is coming! The girl… ooh, here she is! Shhhhh Shhhh shhhhh, can’t miss the girl!
Of course, he’s probably just whispering to his friends ‘Oh jeez, I hope she doesn’t step on me. Because seriously, have you SEEN the size of her feet!?’
I am the only person in the world to find that funny, and you know what? I don’t even care.