Despite my best intentions
I've always thought snails were endearing-those Martian eye-stalks, that almost human manner of shrinking from trouble-but realize that not everyone shares my affinity for them. Gardeners, for instance, especially in more humid climates than mine, refer to them with unreserved loathing.
My college roommate's enmity went even deeper, and not because he was a gardener; I doubt he'd ever pulled a weed or pruned a branch. With shuddering conviction he declared himself a molluscophobe and said that just the sight of the boneless, slimy creatures was enough to make him hurl.
I figured he was exaggerating, so one evening, affecting an air of oblivion, I returned to our dorm room with a large (and cooperative) snail stuck to my forehead. This was a mistake. Jim had such a visceral reaction to my lame practical joke that I never so much as uttered the word snail in his presence again-and resolved, henceforth, to take people at their word when it came to their phobias.
So much for molluscophobia and other neuroses. Yesterday, I spent hours eradicating the asparagus fern that's engulfed parts of my parents' yard. Asparagus fern has a nightmarish, tuberous root system, and removing it is like taking up old carpet. I planted Baby Sunrose in its stead. I also transplanted a Camellia and potted a half-dozen Begonias.
When I was nearly done I noticed a small snail clinging to my trowel. I took him over to a moist, shady corner of the yard and settled him on a patch of moss.
A few minutes later a male Blue Jay appeared in the vicinity of the snail. I'm no lover of Jays, which are beautiful but mean: they raid other birds' nests, devouring eggs and hatchlings. I once saw one attack a young squirrel. The sight of the cocky, crested, tail-twitching menace (who seemed to regard me challengingly) got my Irish up.
I charged over to shoo him away, afraid he had the snail in mind for lunch. The Jay fled, cackling in protest-or ridicule-but the snail had somehow vanished. How far could the critter have traveled in those few minutes? After an interval I ran out of ideas and figured the Jay had dispatched the poor snail after all. I shrugged a bit mournfully, stepped to the right to return to my potting soil . . .
. . . and felt the telltale crunch before I heard it.
.