She has a full arsenal of exoskeletons at her disposal. Some have disintegrated into brown dust, their ridges and coils weakened over time, but many remain mostly intact. Each casing represents not just a moult, not just a succession in time, not just a metamorphosis from nymph to adult, but also a tasty treat, a plaything for her domestic short hair. His swamp-green eyes dilate in delight whenever she raps on the lid with the back of a tin soup spoon. She often hesitates after the first is devoured, but then awards her pet a second — even a third. All is clawed and crunched beneath the mottled pinewood table. She cleans up afterwards — a lush spray of Rosy’s Pink Apple Disinfectant upon the slimy spot where he’s drooled and licked the colourless laminate floor. Only an acrid vapour lingers.