The middle child loves critters. All kinds of critters. She names the worms she finds in the garden, and she currently has a green caterpillar that's named "cattie" that she's forbidden to bring inside.
This is the child who was baiting fish hooks at three. This is the child who BEGGED her father to stop the car next time he saw a prarie dog that had been hit by a car, then when he actually did, was absolutely fascinated and thrilled by it's guts. She still talks about this, and it was nearly a year ago. At summer camp, she was the only kid who wanted to feed the iguana the crickets. If she could have placed the cricket in it's mouth, I'm sure she would have.
In a perfect example of her dichotomous nature, she was carrying Cattie the green caterpillar in a sweet yellow teacup.
She made it all the way upstairs to her room with her smaller brother and shut the door, before I realized that there had been no production made about saying goodbye to cattie, and no wailing and gnashing of teeth about having to leave it outside. That's when I suspected that the caterpillar had to be upstairs. I called to her, only to receive no answer. That's when I *knew* the caterpillar was upstairs. I called again. She came down, knowing that she'd been caught, with the caterpillar in the teacup and returned outside, as she wasn't ready to say goodbye.
Of all my children, she will be the one with a toad in her pocket and a lizard in her hand.