I killed a piece of fluff today. As of a couple of days ago, I now make sure that whatever I pick up off of the floor doesn't move.

Not too long ago (before I purchased my beloved carpet broom), I noticed a piece of lint or what-not on the carpet. I picked it up, and then realized that the little piece of debris not only had legs, but that they were entirely anxious to propel the rest of the object out of my clenched fingers. Which became even more clenched, as I madly tried to decide whether to drop said piece of fluff, or or squish it into submission. Ultimately, I chose to drop, stomp, and grind. Unfortunately, that prevented even the most seasoned of CSI investigators from identifying the carcass. I'm going to suggest it may have been a spider at one time.

As a young boy, I enjoyed playing with bugs. We all did, it was in our DNA. If I wasn't attaching one to a fish hook, I was presenting it with dramatic flair to my sister, not sharing in the same masculine DNA as I (I know that technically we must have shared DNA as family members, but for the purpose of this short piece, I ask you to indulge me. More to the point, she was not a fan of bugs).

However, as I 've gotten older (funny I didn't choose to use "matured") I no longer enjoy playing with bugs. Especially registered, trademarked bugs that belong to a massive American entertainment conglomerate. But, I digress...

Now, I have to wear steel-toed safety boots before I step on an ant. I put on oven mitts before I roll up a newspaper to flatten a spider (pronounced "spidder" in our home). And, if I ever have to use a flyswatter, well...let's just say there's not enough soap on a rope to make me feel clean again afterwards...

And, I carefully inspect a piece of fluff now, before I pick it up...

Chow for now!!