The hunt is on

for slugs.  I started slug hunting early this year and found tons of very small ones, hard for the blade to cut in the grass.  It was at dusk after a rain, still drizzling.  My hair was frizzing by the minute and falling in my face. 

Adding to the presentation were shorts to show off my Polish knees, an old t-shirt full of paint, and my husband's mocs because of the swollen right foot.  I was hunched over staring at the ground using my bright blue wicked blade as a staff, stabbing the grass with a "gotcha!".   Every year I treat the neighbors to a spectacle that allows the voyeur in all of us, to hide behind a curtain, peek out, watch for quite some time, and mumble out loud...what the hell is she doing?  My back was killing me from the bent position and walking in shoes too big for me wasn't easy, but I persisted. 

 

Ready to call the game because of darkness, one of the larger slugs caught my attention.  He looked furry.  Upon closer inspection, it seems I killed a lot of maple whirlygighickeys.  Next hunt will be in better light.

My husband slipped his mocs on to check the garden and wanted to know how they became soaked.  My usual answer that always stops him from asking anything else - "why would you ask me that?"  He knows it's time to move on. 

 

Have a great day.

 

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