Today, our newest neighbor came to greet us. I found him slinking along the floor of the garage.
A grub, or larva, or something. AS BIG AS A HOT DOG.
Here is the place where I would like to say proudly that I scooped him up and disposed of him like a responsible adult. But that did not happen. What followed was a tableau that interestingly reflected the differences among the members of our family.
Me (screaming): Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Kill the $@$%!^! thing! Kill it! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!
The Man (screaming): NO! It will slime up my garage floor! Where’s the shovel and I’ll bring it outside!
Me (screaming): NO!!! KILL IT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The Maiden (screaming and weeping): NOOOOOOOOOO! Don’t kill the sweet baby grub! I have a picture of it in Ranger Rick!
The Man and the Maiden won. The Man’s garage floor–and shoe–were saved. The grub, which was neither “sweet” nor a “baby,” went on its merry way to turn into a pupa and become whatever freakishly large bug a 6-inch grub would turn into. The Maiden, comforted, went indoors and made a “report” on grubs in her science notebook.
But all was not lost: I grabbed the phone and renewed our contract with the pest control people.
In the end, victory will be mine.