Grubby


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.

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