I had let the dog in and out. The Hammer was on the floor hoping I was going to phone in sick. I was at the kitchen table drinking coffee in my underwear. The Hammer knows there is always a chance I will stay home until she sees me pulling my work clothes on.
The Hammer got up as I rose and emptied my Millwall mug into my liquor ravaged gut. I walked over the same warm area she had vacated. As I did so I noticed a slimy sensation on my left foot. A slug had hitched a ride on the dog into the house and I had stepped on it.
Black one. Not too big.
If it had been a big one I would have vomited.
Somehow I had not killed it. It looked up at me with his half squished slug eyes.
He was not happy with me. Nor I with it.
I picked him up in a piece of paper towel and threw him out the window to Freedom.
1 comment:
This buddhist conundrum of live and let live follows me around too. Or is it a case of that old "Do Unto Others..." chestnut ?
I don't know. The sole exception I make is flies. I fucking hate them. Through fruit flies to coffin flies. The lords of the dance.
Milo stepped on a slug the other week, he told me. I gather that he shrieked. As might I have, especially barefoot.
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