Today was a rather unsettling day for me. All day long we planted flowers from the greenhouse into the ground until my hand was cramped and sore and speckled with dirt polished deep into each pore. I got dirt scrubbed into me because eventually the weave of the glove began to erode my skin and I took them off, lulled into a false sense of security. The sun so hot, the air so dry... I even lay in the grass, right on it! in shorts and a halter top.
that is my knee! in the grass!
When I lived at the beach the lawn was an enemy mine field, even on the hottest and the driest days. On patrol at any given time I could, within moments, spot a fist sized slug curled deep in the tangle of lawn and clover. These lessons are etched deeply in me. I never, ever walk barefoot on grass.
After hours of hard (sweat sweat) physical labor with a cold beer we took a tour of the garden as it finally stands, as of today. Near the sunflower bed next to the greenhouse I am aware that my foot feels damp.
I slip out of my flipflop and bend my knee so that I can see the bottom of my foot, the left one and there, right in the middle of my arch is a slug (agh) a slug(AGH) about the size of a fingernail clipping (AAGH) and menacing me with its fearsome white belly. I asked Clark to "please, kindly remove the offending gastropod from my foot" but it came out more like GETITOFFMEGETITOFFGETITOFF and then when he failed to respond within 1/4 of a second I began wildly kicking for his shorts because according to my calculations the slug was tucked safely into my arch and while scraping the ground would not save me some basic math formulas indicate that the curve of his thigh was approximate to the curve of my foot. About ten seconds of this life threatening drama elapse before anyone around me clues in and realizes that I am in peril, not just insanely kicking my boyfriend in the balls.
I wont be able to lay in the grass for another few years now and I will accept that I am less soulful for it.
Then tonight Willie came and sat on my lap. I will never forget this how it writhed in her hair. She sat on my lap for like, fifteen minutes while I dug around pulling twigs out of her fur because something felt damp. And then I lifted her booty around and there was a spotted slug rooted in the grassy clover of her long long hair, WRITHING. I ran screaming through the house for Clark. He never woke up, tired from a long day of physical labor so I literally threw the cat out.
She'll have to be shaved tomorrow. This is the second time she has trojanhorsed for the invading slug army.
Edison is still with us. I cant say with certainty how well he is doing. He has good days and days that terrify me. This morning he got ferocious on a horse shaped dog toy my mother sent and tore it from mane to squeaker. Still, you can see in the above photo how his cheek bones jut out. There is so little left of him I touch him gently so he wont crumble away.
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