The land around our house is full of living things I’d rather not see, touch, or be near; though, to Spitfire and Destructo—it's a sporting paradise. Creature sport, that is. If it flies, crawls, slithers, boasts multiple appendages, has bulging bug-eyes or no eyes, is mud-covered, slimy, woefully scaly, or is protected by a hard outer shell (and I am not talking about an M & M), you will probably find it housed in one, of many, uniquely assembled containers around our home. Beware what lid you remove here.
“No snails!” I say forcefully, as Spitfire studiously examines the ground behind the porch, zeroing in on her victim. She ignores me, which is a favorite hobby of hers. Destructo, his head looking like a patchwork quilt since he rubbed liberal amounts of ketchup over its mostly bald surface at dinner, is more than mildly curious about what she sees. She growls at him when he gets near, and he shrieks back. It’s my turn to ignore. She merrily holds up her find for us to see.
“See! No snail!” she says triumphantly, her hand dripping with a long, squirming night crawler. I guess I should be happy--it's just an earthworm. Snails alarm me. Dart Guy is confused as to why your basic, mostly-empty shell bothers me, but fourteen million randomly strewn toys blocking a safe passage from hallway to kitchen doesn’t. I can’t say why. I’m sorry, Dart Guy. I know this causes a certain rise in your blood pressure. We do appreciate you keeping our residence above sloth status, even if we don’t tell you very often. Your spring cleaning has resulted in nothing short of a miraculous metamorphosis in our humble abode. I am shocked at the color and beauty of our floors you have exposed—who knew they looked so nice underneath it all?
“No snails!” I say forcefully, as Spitfire studiously examines the ground behind the porch, zeroing in on her victim. She ignores me, which is a favorite hobby of hers. Destructo, his head looking like a patchwork quilt since he rubbed liberal amounts of ketchup over its mostly bald surface at dinner, is more than mildly curious about what she sees. She growls at him when he gets near, and he shrieks back. It’s my turn to ignore. She merrily holds up her find for us to see.
“See! No snail!” she says triumphantly, her hand dripping with a long, squirming night crawler. I guess I should be happy--it's just an earthworm. Snails alarm me. Dart Guy is confused as to why your basic, mostly-empty shell bothers me, but fourteen million randomly strewn toys blocking a safe passage from hallway to kitchen doesn’t. I can’t say why. I’m sorry, Dart Guy. I know this causes a certain rise in your blood pressure. We do appreciate you keeping our residence above sloth status, even if we don’t tell you very often. Your spring cleaning has resulted in nothing short of a miraculous metamorphosis in our humble abode. I am shocked at the color and beauty of our floors you have exposed—who knew they looked so nice underneath it all?
lol...
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