The Slug Life Chose Me
a short story in which I refuse to be a slug murderer
Whatever I had planned for my day on Monday was flung off my balcony when I discovered a slug in Stheno’s pot. For those who didn’t read this post, Stheno is one of two olive trees I bought myself recently. Stheno’s soil had been worrying me for a few weeks after I discovered what I thought was some spindly spider web, but I just kind of mussed up the top layer of soil and thought I had solved our problem.
Then, Monday morning, as I stood up from my yoga mat feeling particularly calm and pleased with myself, there he was. The slug. Slugging along with his antenna out.
Did you know that slugs are hermaphrodites? They are, so I should use gender neutral pronouns here but I don’t want to freak myself or my readers out by saying something like, “there they were” because that implies more than one slug and ew.
Did you know that one slug can lay something like 300 eggs at a time? I didn’t know that before, BUT I DO NOW.
Stheno is currently on a little balcony holiday outside until I can get my fearless husband to help me repot her and her sister, because I am not interested in accidentally touching a slug or a clutch of 300 slug eggs.
I didn’t name the slug because I knew he/she/they wouldn’t be staying long. There was a spider who hung out in our elevator foyer for a few weeks that I called Přemysl. I have developed a strong aversion to killing bugs in my living space and will either ignore them or ask husband to gently put them back outside. If they get to stay, they get a name. Přemysl was named so because a friend in Prague had a spider living with her that we named Bohouš. All spiders get intensely Czech names.
Back to my gender fluid slimy friend.
While I didn’t give him a name I did spend about an hour fretting over what to do with him. Initially, I put him on the balcony floor, but I couldn’t stop going back to check on him. Worried equally that he would find a hiding spot or that he would simply die in plain sight on the cold, hard tile. He looked sad and lonely out there. The internet told me to kill him by freezing him, drowning him, or, horrifically, cutting him in half with scissors. The internet said these methods were more “humane” than salt.
Nope.
I had thought about putting him in a jar and walking him to the park, but at the beginning of my hour-long slug life debate that seemed a bit much. I had already gone out for the day and checked off “leave the house” on my habit tracker. Was a weird little slug really worth changing into trousers and trainers?
Yes, in the end, he was. Mostly because neither myself nor husband had any better ideas and I am not ever going to cut a living thing in half with fucking scissors. So, I put him in a jar, changed into trousers and trainers, and walked him up to a nice spot in the park. A spot where I have spent time sitting and enjoying a bit of nature (ignoring the spectacular view of Barcelona’s pollution cloud). It took two flings of the jar to get him out.
I hope the slimy guy has a long and happy slug life out there. If a bird eats him then I guess that was supposed to happen. Birds eat slugs. Being cut in half or drowned or frozen is not supposed to happen. No matter how icked-out I am.
On Sunday I had asked husband what this week’s hot mushrooms should be about. He said he didn’t know. Next Sunday I won’t ask out loud for something to write about, lest the universe provide me with a similar topic.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this short little story about a slug. See you next week!
Header photo by Francesco Ungaro