Bug on a Leaf

I shot this  while  visiting Jeff and Susan in Port Coquitlam in 2010. Not bad! 

Slaughterhouse Pie

Sylvia sent me this text message this afternoon. I laughed at the non sequitur of the final line. And yet it seems fitting that the huntress should feast after her kill. My line about the pancake, of course, is in reference to this post. 

In the Moth of Madness

There's nothing more unnerving than being on the phone with your wife when she suddenly changes the subject so that she can scream incoherently. Fortunately it was only a moth, which I dispatched with a cloud of Raid and a paper napkin as soon as I got home. But no sooner had I cracked my knuckles in preparation to write my latest brilliant missive did yet another shriek of despair echo through our once-placid domain.

"IT'S BACK! YOU DIDN'T KILL IT! KILLL ITTTTT!"

This time the moth chose to lurk right above the living room couch where Sylvia was resting, which increased the tempo, urgency and volume of Sylvia's pleas. Manfully I stood upon the couch and held the spray can aloft, pressing the trigger home to inundate the stubborn beast with all the fury of modern chemistry. Unfortunately the beast fell straight down, landing on my chest. Frankly I wanted to start screaming too, but I figured that if I started to panic at that point Sylvia might actually lose consciousness, so I merely grimaced and shook the thing onto the couch, which set Sylvia to screaming again.

There could be no mercy this time. I held the Raid at point-blank range over the bug's twitching form and cried havoc, burying it in toxic foam. Then I scooped it up in paper towel and crushed it, only half-deafened by Sylvia's hysterical (and I use the term tightly) wails.

Once the beast was slain, Sylvia relaxed.

"What if it had landed on you when it fell?" I asked.

"I would have passed out," she said flatly. I think I believe her.

Big Green Bug

On our way to Expo '86, Mom felt compelled to show off this large caterpillar. Ick.

Just Another Manic Monday

It was a dark and stormy night and thus my dreams were lit with flashes of lightning penetrating my subconscious. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning until at last it was time to rise. Grumbling, my vision sleep-blurred, I stumbled through my morning routine and decided to drive to work rather than ride the bus; we needed groceries, and I could stop at the supermarket on the way home.

Despite my lack of sleep I felt reasonably refreshed and aware by the time I climbed into the car. Because I've been making an effort to eat breakfast more consistently, I stopped at Tim Horton's for a toasted bagel and a hot chocolate.

I ate the bagel without incident, waiting for the hot chocolate to cool as I headed downtown. Just as I was turning into the parking lot, I thought this would be an opportune time to peel back the lid of my beverage and enjoy a shot of sugar and caffeine.

But capricious Fate was up to her old tricks, and as I fumbled with the hot chocolate I hit a bump in the parking lot. The car lurched upward as my fingers thrust down, and in an instant my hand thrust violently through the lid and into the (thankfully) lukewarm drink. A geyser of hot chocolate erupted from the wounded cup.

Hot chocolate covered my hand, my sleeve. Hot chocolate sprayed across the console, the stick shift. Hot chocolate coated the steering wheel, filled the cup holder. Hot chocolate soaked my phone. Hot chocolate spattered my glasses. Hot chocolate matted down my hair and filled my right ear.

In shock, I phoned my boss and said I'd be a little late. Dripping with sugary muck, the stick shift and steering wheel wet with wasted libations, I turned around and drove home to change, shower and quickly detail the cockpit of the car. When all was said and done I was only about 45 minutes late for work, but it wasn't the sweet start to my day I'd hoped for.

Then, at about 2:30, Sylvia phoned. Clearly alarmed but remarkably composed considering her bug phobia, she reported that she'd had to kill a centipede that had nefariously wormed its way into the living room. The creature's corpse now slumbered beneath the tea towel that Sylvia had resourcefully used to snare it before stomping it to death with extreme prejudice. Sylvia's feet are tiny but not to be trifled with.

Given the events of the day, we decided to cancel the grocery shopping. Fate tempted thrice is often unkind.

Sean and the Stinkbug

Via Facebook, my brother Sean has just noted that he's enraged because one member of Edmonton's mosquito horde flew into his mouth. Having accidentally inhaled the odd bug from time to time, I sympathize. I wonder, though, if Sean remembers a more gruesome encounter with an insect - to wit, a stinkbug.

Our childhood home, Leaf Rapids, had plenty of insects; indeed, they swarmed without number. Aside from mosquitoes, blackflies, sandflies, chiggers and bird-sized dragonflies, Leaf Rapids was also home to at least one stinkbug, however briefly. I would think that northern Manitoba is beyond the range of stinkbugs, but it's possible the one in question hitched a ride with one of the many pickerel-fishing tourists that used to come to Leaf Rapids to enjoy the crystal-clear lakes and long summer days.

In any event, Sean and I were playing with toy cars and plastic shovels and pails in our sandy back yard. I hadn't even seen the stinkbug before Sean swept it up in his chubby toddler's hand.

"Bug!" he said.

"Uh huh," I replied. Then Sean opened his mouth. "Hey, don't - "

But before I could stop him, Sean had popped the bug into his mouth. His new teeth burst the stinkbug like a ripe six-legged grape, and the tiny beast's revenge was instant: a foul odor swam up from Sean's gaping mouth as the bug's stink glands burst open across his innocent tongue. The stench made us reel in disgust; wide-eyed with shock, Sean burst into tears and spit out the gory remains while I retreated, gagging.


Once I'd recovered my senses, I poured Sean a glass of water and helped him rinse out his mouth. His trauma was mercifully brief, and soon he was happily engaged with his cars once more.

Sean will have to decide what's worse - ingesting a mosquito or a stinkbug. I'm merely glad I don't have the experience necessary to judge.