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I yelled from the backyard with the hose still waving in my right hand, “come check out this slug.”  My kids booked it toward me with the same passion they run for ice cream.  “A slug?  Where?”  my daughter wanted to know.  Only she was looking for the slug in the same fashion she looks for her shoes–anywhere but on the ground where the slug actually was.  “I don’t see it,” she said.   And her brother parroted, “I don’t see it.”

But then they saw it.  The big, wide, brown slug, barely moving.  And they started right in with their ‘wows’ and ‘ahhs’.  Then my son glanced up and said, “I go get a stick.”  Which seemed fine–much more humane than salt.  And I dragged the hose a little further to water the rest of our petrified plants. 

 But then my daughter spoke in a serious voice reserved for adults. “He’s just going to get a stick so he can kill it.”  Which was like stating the obvious and then getting awfully emotional about it.   The death of the slug, that is.  “Um…I’m okay with that,” I droned.  Only she retorted before leaving me hanging with the hose, “but dad says that all life has value.” 

Um…

okay then.

Which is why if you look hard enough, you’re likely to find the big brown slug somewhere in our yard.  Still moving. 

The rest of his family, too.

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