Dear Crickets,

I've had it! I am apparently not making myself clear through my squeals, screams and shrieks of horror. You are NOT welcome in my home. You are not welcome all over the floors, you are not welcome on the furniture. You are certainly not welcome in my shower. And you? The one who was big, fat, hairy and still moving this morning? YOU are not welcome in my kitchen sink from whence you leaped out at me from behind the pot cleaner, causing me to drop a knife precariously close to my bare foot. That was completely unacceptable.

I am very aware that it is always at least 105 degrees outside and that you are probably hot. I do not know how you are getting in, but I do know that you're dying from the exterminator's poison within an hour of your entry. Is that really worth the air conditioning? Is it? Picking up dead crickets is not my idea of a fun early morning activity. Particularly when I think you're dead and you leap out of the dust pan. Not cool.

Even Gus doesn't like you anymore. He used to enjoy your spirited leapy antics, but he has grown bored with your presence. He doesn't even like to eat all of you. His habit of leaving only a meaty, hairy leg on the floor isn't doing much for me either.

In closing, go frolic out in the cornfield and tell all of your nasty jumpy friends that our house is closed. Off limits. Finished. If I had a bird friend who hunted crickets, I'd call him in to eat your sorry selves. Sum up: You're nasty. Get out.

Sincerely,
Squealing Pig