Bert (standard:humor, 2236 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Nov 12 2008	Views/Reads: 3159/1985	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Slug: A land-roving, air-breathing snail-like mollusk without a shell, but with a distinct head bearing sensory organs (feelers). Herbivore or carnivore? Poor Bert!

BERT 

When I stopped by this morning, Bert was crucifying slugs to his fence
with a pneumatic nailing gun.  He was picking up the slugs with his 
bare fingers and driving a two-penny nail through them into the fence, 
about an inch or so off the ground.  The slugs, who normally don't move 
around too fast, squirmed furiously in slow motion. 

"Normally, I wouldn't ask ..." I began, choking down my gorge.  He
answered right away: 

"You would understand better than anyone," he spoke over his shoulder,
"so I'm going to explain it to you in just a minute." 

He plastered another slug against the fence with the nailer, then stood
up and holstered his weapon in his belt-pouch. 

"C'mon in. Let's have some coffee," he said. I'll tell you all about
it." 

Bert shuffled to the porch and stumbled on the first step; I took his
arm and lifted him, so he could take the steps a little easier.  We 
settled in the kitchen.  Bert was so winded, I had to make the coffee: 
I looked all over for the beans and the coffee-grinder while he 
recovered his breath.  When I found them, I set a boiling flask and 
folded the filter disk into the funnel.  With the funnel on the flask, 
I dumped the grounds into the filter and poured boiling water over them 
until the mellow, dark, honey-colored stream turned a deep, aromatic 
amber. I poured two cups, added white powders, and a spoonful of hot 
chocolate, then served him and sat down.  Neither of us had said a 
word. 

Back during the Cold War days, Bert and I used to work together at
PropCo, making airplane propellers.  We earned an early retirement when 
the age of jet engines arrived. 

Our houses sat side by side in Skyway, a pretty suburb of Seattle not
far from Rainier Beach. On a clear morning, you could see the volcano.  
Today, our wives were long gone, our children halfway round the world.  
We kept busy tending our gardens.  Sometimes we helped out a neighbor.  
For a few years, Bert had to use a wheelchair, but after his hip 
operation, he managed to walk around pretty good. 

"Reach me down that issue of `Creative Gardening'," he pointed.  I gave
it to him.  He put on his eyeglasses, turned to page 44 and began 
reading, 

"Collect two pounds of tomato worms in an old pickle jar and cream them
in a blender.  Dilute five to one using fresh spring water and spray 
your tomatoes with it. The tomato worms will be gone next day.  They 
will never come back." 

He looked up and waited for my comment. 

"I suppose it means that tomato worms are vegetarians," I replied
thoughtfully. 

"Exactly!  And that's what I'm doing with the slugs -- tacking them up
where all the other slugs will see them."  He grinned fiercely.  "I put 
a  few hundred into a blender and diluted it with spring water, just 
like the book said.  Then I sprayed the lawn, the garden and all the 
bushes around the house.  Those slugs will be g0ne forever." 

At this point, I didn't know what to say.  Should I tell him?  Shouldn't
I?  With all his years of gardening experience, he probably knew 

already.  On the other hand, if he knew, then why was he doing it?. 
Poor Bert.  His memory must be going. 

"Why are you doing it?" I asked. 

He pouted a little.  Obviously I had missed the point. 

"Just think," he lectured me, "If minced tomato worms can drive away
live ones, then crucified slugs will drive the living ones out of my 


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