Thursday Night Entertainment

I am a sick, sick person.

Truly, I am.

I only realized how very sick tonight.

Thursday night is feeding night for Hydra, the ball python.

When we first brought her home, I couldn't bear to watch Hydra eat because, at the time, she was devouring adorable little pinky mice. I actually considered starting a "Save the Mouse" crusade. For every mouse that Hydra killed, I would rescue another from the reptile shop and set it free. Tim convinced me that the mice stood less of a chance in the wilds of South Florida than they did in Hydra's tank. Point well made.

However, Hydra inevitably got bigger, and graduated to eating rats.

Rats are not necessarily cute.

Rats are dirty.

Rats are gross.

Rats squeak real good when snatched and strangled by a python.

And, seriously, have you ever watched a snake eat? It is fascinating stuff. Admittedly, Hydra is not the smartest of snakes, and occasionally attempts to eat her rats butt-first, but that only adds to the entertainment factor. The best Thursday nights are the ones when she refuses to eat where she killed, and drags the rat to a different locale in the tank.

And my favorite part? The big yawn she does at the end to re-lock her jaw in place.

Wicked cool.

Sick.

I know.

I should be ashamed of myself.

It gets worse.

Read on if you dare.

Since Tim treks to the reptile store for a rat each Thursday, he is also nice enough to pick up Styx's super worms.

Last Thursday I requested that he also pick up some crickets for the Fuffer. I feel she needs some variety in her diet.

Well, Styx loves the crickets, but they are tricky little suckers. They hop real good. (This was Tim's initial objection to getting the crickets at all. If one got loose, and he had to listen to chirping all night, he wanted a divorce. He kids, of course, but he was serious about me being very careful when feeding Styx the crickets.)

By Murphy's Law, the first cricket that I tried to feed to Styx hopped away. I figured she might chase it. I underestimated her hunting instincts. I should blame myself for spoiling her so. (I have been known to let her eat from my hand when she is feeling particularly lazy and/or snotty.) I had to suck it up and deal with Tim's ribbing all night long, and console myself and my imaginary cricket-crawlies that my two bad-ass hunter cats would not allow the renegade to live long.

Due to this episode, I learned a little lesson.

Rip off one of the legs and the cricket merely hops in circles, and Styx can take all the time she wants hunting him down.

I know, I know!

Awful.

And I claim to be such an animal lover!