no wolves, just crickets

This is pretty much what I experience each spring when the camel crickets make their appearance. It's a sign of the apocalypse, I tell you. These things are the size of small dogs and they live to scare the bejeebers out of me when I walk through the early morning (internal) fog in my bare feet. I have hurled both verbal and physical assaults at them to no avail.

The Cricket Hunter (AKA Nolan) is my last resort. He is an expert at catching them and putting them outside. I know -- if I would kill them, that would end the problem, right? The death penalty is reserved for ants and fleas, of which I have a near-phobic loathing.

This morning, in the laundry room, sometime prior to 6:30 a.m.:

Me: "CRICKET!"

Nolan: (Sigh) "I'm coming."

(Meanwhile, said cricket scampers away, leaving the boy frustrated and with nothing to wrangle. About two minutes later, the cricket returns.)

Me: "CRICKET!"

Nolan: (Sigh) "OK."

(Again, the cricket retreats before the boy arrives.)

Nolan: "What are you? The mom who cried 'cricket'?"