Some days take unexpected turns that change one’s view of life. As I drove off early for meetings and errands, I dodged workmen randomly roaming the neighborhood. Some wore tool belts and carried hammers; some wore dockers and carried clipboards. So far they’d torn off half the stones on the porch post and all the wood siding around the front window. Plastic wrap under the window flapped in the breeze protecting nothing. The porch hole was uncovered and and completely exposed. I flipped on my wipers to clear raindrops from the windshield and wondered if Metropolitan Inspection wanted the moisture to collect in their holes so they’d have rotting “evidence.”
Three hours later, when I returned, something seemed out of place. You know those “niggles” you get when things feel wrong? I examined the porch hole. No problem there. I scanned the rest of the porch. My heart skipped and my eyes froze on the corner by the door. The fern pot! It was inches from its usual spot.
What? How dare they? I ran over to the pot and looked inside. No slug.
“Come on,” I said out loud to myself. “It’s just a slug. It’s not like they let the dog out.” My words didn’t comfort me. I had been violated.
I peered behind the pot. And there, lying in a thick, milky, mucusy glob of slime was my pet slug. I’d never seen slime like it — it looked more like a mix of clear epoxy and Elmer’s glue than your run-of-the-mill slug slime. I dialed the Humane Society to report that my pet slug had been so severely terrorized it slimed its pants. The line was busy.
I wondered, do extreme traumas kill slugs? You know, the way yellow jackets die when they sting someone?
I logged into my computer and opened Adobe Illustrator. After an hour of experimenting with different combinations of colors and fonts, I printed out two labels that read “Caution do not disturb SLUG!” and bound them together around a stick.
Back at the slug pot, my poor slug was still in the corner, passed out in a coagulation of its own viscous glop. I stuck my sign in the slug pot and walked around the sidewalk, driveway and porch to make sure it was visible from all angles.
What the Slug Says!
The neighborhood was crawling with pinkies — pinkies that made my pinkies seem harmless. After a long night out with the gang I was ready for my beauty sleep. As I languished under the ferns, an odorous pinky stuck its face in my pot. I held my breath and froze to appear dead.
The pinky waved an orange, three-pronged snake at me — was it going to strangle me? Or beat me? My pot began to shake — I guessed it to be an 8.9 on the Richter Scale. I bounced around for what seemed like minutes. Then I felt a large jolt and everything stopped moving. I slid out of the pot and edged into the corner to avoid falling debris. I, uh, uh… in all the confusion, some how bodily fluid was uncontrollably released. Since that horrific day, I’ve been plagued with PTSD (Post Traumatic Slug Disorder).
*Note to readers: We’re catching up on the pet slug history. When we reach current time we’ll post a daily slug pot report – read on — it gets better. )