It Continues…

My garden smells like beer. Cheap, two-year-old, stale beer. I’ve got containers of the stuff all over the place, allowing slugs to drown their sorrows (literally).

Every morning, I go outside and pick slugs off my plants, dropping them into the cups of beer that have collected a great number of their brethren.

Picking slugs off of still-wet plants is exactly as pleasant as it sounds. The slugs are slimy and hard to hold. Gloves are impossible. You have to just pick them with your fingers, and they instantly curl up and shrink and try to slip out of your grasp. (They often succeed. So, then you get to pick them up again.)

This morning, I must have picked up at least twenty of the slimy little buggers. I have no idea how many are in the beer cup, as I can’t see to the bottom, but each morning there are new ones floating at the top.

But still–still–no matter how many I kill, it seems my yard has an endless supply of replacements.

Today, I put eggshells around one of the zucchini plants, trying to rescue it. The brown-sugar-and-yeast concoction will be ready to go into traps tomorrow.

Last night, I went out after dark to deliver a pie plate of stale beer to the garden. I stepped onto the porch. Slugs were crawling up the side of the house. Big, fat gray ones. Smaller, darker ones. Leaving little glittery trails behind them.

I slid on my flip flops.

And felt something slimy.

And disgusting.

Yes.

It was a slug. In my shoe.

The feeling still haunts me.

The slime. The gentle squish. The stickiness.

I think they’re winning…

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