Inflatable Sheep

Yes, I am a snail murderer. I'm not proud of it, but it was I who scattered the snail bait. Today, looking around the edge of the backyard fence, I see their shells. I feel badly about it. I'm sure I've earned some kinda karmatic bad stuff. But it was the snails or my flowers.

I bought the snail bait last winter when I noticed how many there were and learning that they loved irises. But when, a couple of months later, I actually read the directions on the bag before using, I was horrified to find that it lured and killed. (I thought I'd pour a magic line around each plant and they would just not cross that line. Silly me.)

I tried throwing them in the far corner of the yard, but they do move faster than you think. And they have no natural predators I gather from experienced backyarders.

As things escalated—more snails, less plant leaves—I tried placing trays of water under each leg of the table my plants sat on. The snails crossed with impunity.

As a ‘last resort,’ I placed the bowls of beer that the Web and co-workers tell me is quite effective. The following morning, I dreaded looking in the bowls, imagining all the drunken dead snails bobbing up against each other. But there wasn't a single snail floating.

Then the little nibbled bits began showing up on my recently resurrected and much guarded begonia, Sunny. That was it. Line crossed.

So, their shells lining the bottom of the backyard fence makes me sad. They made interesting photos while alive.

I even named one whose shell I had accidently cracked when we first moved here leaving him with a distinctive shell. I haven't seen George. I haven't seen George's shell.