I woke late this morning. The day was overcast, blinds were drawn, room was dim.
On the wall to my right, I saw a thing.
It was a brown, elongated thing, about four inches from on end to the other, two-thirds of the way up the wall, behind the cedar chest, pointing toward the ceiling.
I couldn’t remember any light switches or thermostats in the vicinity. I sat up, squinted. Squinted some more.
Got up, tiptoed—why?—to lamp on left side of the room, turned it on, advanced a half-step toward the unidentified object.
Saw little horns sticking out of the end at the top.
He came. “A slug!”
He picked up a shoe.
He ran for a paper towel.
The camera was in the living room. “Should we take a picture first?” I stepped toward the door.
“It might get away.” Paper towel in hand, David pounced, then ran.
There went my chance for authentic photo on my blog post.
He returned. “I relocated it.”
And all was well.
But questions remain:
Where did he come from? How did he get in? Where had he been hiding?
How long did it take him to crawl up that wall? I mean, he’s a slug. Sluggish. Did he cover all that territory while I slumbered only inches away?
What if he had turned toward the bed instead of away from it? Would I have opened my eyes and found myself nose to nose with him?
And, more to the point—
Was he alone? Or did he have company? Are there more? His spouse? His children? His sisters and his cousins and his aunts?
His sisters and his cousins,
Whom he reckons up by dozens,
And his aunts!