Aselin

There is a general rule that if something is a 'baby' it is cute. Baby walruses? Darling. Baby bison? I want to pinch their hairy little cheeks. Even baby alligators have those cute little snappy jaws that make me go awwwww.

There are some exceptions. I happen to live among them.

Noooo, I don't mean my own young. I'm referring to the pestilence known as the scorpion.

I live in a beautiful former commercial orange grove. Besides being able to reap obscene amounts of citrus during the season, we also have a plethora of vermin known as the bark scorpion.

I have a general rule that I don't just kill things to dispose of them. If I find a non-poisonous spider in my house, I carry it outside. Longtime readers will remember my run in with the swarm (yes I remember) of bees in my kitchen. I have a strong leaning toward the sanctity of life.

Not so with the scorpion. Scorpions must die. Thus far scorpion sightings have been met with screams, stomps, blowtorches (they have their own unique, slightly sweet aroma as they incinerate) and rubber mallets. We hold regular family outings in the yard shining our industrial strength black light and bearing a lit blowtorch.

The first time I saw baby scorpions I was scarred for life. Who would think that baby scorpions ride on the back of their mother until they reach a certain age. Imagine, if it's possible, a large scorpion writhing with swarming tiny scorpions - it is "ICK" defined.

Usually we don't get scorpions in our home. I have a service that is supposed to prevent any access by these evil insects, arachnids or whatever species they belong to. Unfortunately, they are wily little yucknids. Coming out of the kitchen last night, there stood a large scorpion, tail curled, just daring me to walk barefoot in its direction.

Being the example of reason, I scream at all the kids to get shoes on, to hand me a weapon, to call their dad who wasn't home from work yet. Gaining composure, I don gloves, safety goggles and rubber boots and then I stomp on the bugger. Repeatedly. With way too much pleasure in the crunching, gut squishing dispatch.

I give the "All Clear" signal to the kids, who, while they are laughing at me, are profoundly grateful I saved them from imminent danger.

Later, strolling across my bathroom I notice a little fleck of dirt. Since I am not the best housekeeper this isn't entirely out of place, but as I reach to pick it up, I realize not a second too soon, that it is a BABY scorpion. In my house. In my inner sanctum. The violation is acute. My reaction swift. Grabbing a shampoo bottle and yelling a ninja yell, I squish the youngin' with everything I've got. Then I grab a shoe and squish it some more. Then I grab a paper towel and squish it again. It couldn't have been flatter.

Take that you trespassing vermin of pain.

I turn back to see the kids who have gathered because I was yelling, staring, wide eyed and not a little freaked out.

There's a price for safety I remind them. It's a good thing you are all cute.