Slug Hunting

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.