Poor Slug

Today I squashed a slug. He was not a bug. He did not bite, tickle, buzz or otherwise molest me. At best, he was the occasional plant nibbler who feasts on my weeds. He was making his epic journey across my stoop in his dilated time. I really feel he would of made it, but I may have drank too much wine. An oyster without a shell, a mollusk with no sea, he had no rock to climb under, so instead was killed by me. On this fading day I vow, no matter what, nor where, nor when, nor how. I will never pour salt on another, never bait one more, never make a careless step out of my front door. This will be the last slug I kill through any reckless act. This is not just optimism, but a solid fact.