Quick definition before we start: anything that can ooze slime or slap three or more knees while laughing at me is defined as “icky.” 

Please do not write to tell me of the wondrous and fascinating differences between insects, mollusks and arthropods. 

I do not care.

As long as things that are icky stay where they belong, that is, on a National Geographic special such as “Our Friend the Bug,” we can remain on friendly terms. 

Live and let live.

I don’t like to kill things and often go to embarrassing lengths to avoid doing so. 

Should a spider find its way into my home, I will scoop it up and gently deposit it outside with a request to set up shop nearby to get all of the annoying flying ickies, especially those little, tiny gnat fly thingies that float right in front of your face and are completely unaffected by frantic and, at times, violent swatting.  I don’t know why those flies choose my face to settle in front of when they have the whole out of doors to hover and (excuse the obscure literary reference but it’s for my kids) I don’t even own a conch.

I can’t kill the bugs in the front yard because Mr. Lizard, whom we all adore, lives under our basketball pole.  I can’t kill the bugs in the side planter because Mrs. Lizard lives there and she comes out to sun herself while I pick weeds and we wouldn’t want to disturb Mrs. Lizard’s food supply.

We love our Mr. and Mrs. Lizard because with the death of Tina we no longer have any outdoor kitties and these are the first reptiles we have shared living quarters with who have their entire tails intact. 

I can’t use bug poison in the back yard because I take Cookie, the Vicious Fluff Bunny, there to do her afternoon hopping.  So, the ickies basically have Mardi Gras every day in our yard.

Indoor ickies have to contend with Freddie the cat.  Freddie’s new favorite video EVER is of President Obama taking out that fly although Freddie can’t understand why the President didn’t follow up by eating the fly and then coughing it up in a hairball hours later, which is Freddie’s preferred method for dealing with just about anything.

However, peace and harmony and living in idyllic coexistence with the planet went flying out the window when I put out the dogs the other night.

Scooby, the Jack Russell Terrier, was reluctant to go because after a solid week and a half of nonstop afternoon thunder and random fireworks, his nerves were basically shot.  Scully, the elderly, blind, diabetic Poodle mix stumbled and fumbled her way out while I dug Scooby out from under the hot water heater and stomped into the dog room only to see an extreme icky crawl across the floor.

A scorpion.

We live in the high desert of Oregon and this was not the first time I have crossed paths with a scorpion.  Every time, regardless of my previous gravitational ties to the Earth, upon espying a scorpion, I achieve levitation.

It’s really quite remarkable and is beyond my powers of explanation.  Somehow, someway, I made it from the dog room back into the house while touching the garage floor maybe twice at most.  I tracked down Beloved Spouse and calmly screeched, “Where is your scorpion poison?”

Now, why I thought he would be lurking about with scorpion poison somewhere on his pajama-ed person is really a question for the ages and one that Beloved Spouse immediately asked.  I had no response other than to dive under the kitchen sink to try and find my own supply.

Turned out, I had nothing with which to kill bugs because of the reasons discussed above.  All I had were cleaners.

Knowing Scully could quite possibly stumble across the scorpion at any time and that Scooby was more than stupid enough to antagonize it, I was beyond panic and frantically snatched up the bathroom bleach cleaner and dashed back to do battle.  I grabbed my husband because he had on slippers and I informed him he, as Stomper-in-Chief, was my backup plan if the cleaner failed to do the job.

I flew, literally, (see above re: levitation powers) and sprayed the offender with all the gusto I could muster.  It worked.  Not only was the scorpion dead, it was disinfected, springtime fresh and an albino.  Beloved Spouse finally arrived minutes later (he had to walk...on the ground) and poked it and said, “I’m not sure it’s a scorpion.”

I replied, “I don’t care.  It’s living with Jesus now.  Peace out.”