Slug
Hunting
We
know it’s here. It leaves a slimy trail on our living room rug. But we've yet
to catch it in action.
Our
hunt for the elusive slug began a few weeks ago, when the weather here in
Scotland turned unseasonably warm. By warm I mean it got up into the 70’s, and
the sun came out from its usual cloud cover. It’s typically cool, overcast, and
rainy here in the summertime, but this year we've gotten pretty close to what I
remember from the Southern United States as being downright hot and humid. Only
the main floor of our century-old stone manse stays cavernously cold all year
long, and so the slug must appreciate our natural indoor air-conditioning as
much as we do.
I
grew up in the South with toads on the sidewalk, snakes in the yard, and ants
in the kitchen. We also suffered cockroaches that would scatter as fast as
lightening when you flicked the lights on. Occasionally we had mice in the house
and opossums in the garage, and in Minneapolis there were raccoons that
inhabited the sewers—I know because my dogs would sense them down in the storm
drains and bark at them, and I could barely make out their beady little eyes
shining fearlessly up at me.
When
it comes to non-humans abiding in our Glasgow hame, my partner and I are—fortunately—not
squeamish about the same critters. John hates spiders so I handle them, and my
height allows me to reach the ones on the ceiling. I on the other hand can’t
stand mice, and John doesn't mind setting traps or, more importantly, emptying
them.
But
this slug is getting the better of both of us. A couple times, when we've each
woken up in the middle of the night, we've armed ourselves with flashlights and
stealthily gone downstairs to the scene of the slime. Like a pair of private
detectives we get down on all fours and train our searchlights over the rugged
terrain expecting to find our culprit with its tentacles held up begging us, “Don’t
salt!”
Nothing.
Not a slug in sight. Only the tail-tale sign of its having come, crisscrossed
the floor numerous times, and mysteriously vanished.
Now
there’s a reason why a slug is called a slug and not a snake or a springer or a
swift: it’s not a fast mover. It’s sluggish, hence its name. So why can’t we spot
it in slow-motion? Even if it heard us coming down the steps, how could it make
a speedy get-away?
Maybe
the slug is a shape-shifter, a magical creature that can transform itself into
another creature, say, a spider, scurrying under the floorboards. Or it might turn
into a swallow and head for the window, which would explain the opaque imprints
on our panes—perhaps they’re on the inside and not the outside. Or the slug
could morph into streaks of silver, darting every which way.
One
thing's for sure, this heat and the slug will be gone quick enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment