It must be critter week in Melaque.
My neighbor, Bill Gilbert, tells a story of a nocturnal bathroom trip. He was heading toward the toilet to do what so many men our age must do during the wee hours. Bare feet. No light.
On his way, he heard the dreaded crunch. Under his foot.
He was positive he had stepped on a scorpion. And he was correct. Light revealed an incredibly efficient killing machine.
He was lucky not to have been stung.
A day or two later, another neighbor was not so lucky. She picked up a towel and was nailed by one of the local small beige scorpions that carry quite a wallop in their tails.
A sting bad enough she had to seek medical care.
I have been rather lucky with scorpions. With the exception of one sting in San Miguel de Allende last year (float like a butterfly, sting like a scorpion), I have enjoyed the status of neutral observer of scorpions during my nocturnal adventures.
Late last week, I found myself in the same position as my friend Bill. I needed to get up for that trek to the toilet. No lights. No sandals. Even though I should have learned from those who have journeyed before me.
I had barely taken three steps when I felt a crunch and a small stabbing in my right foot. I would like to say I remained calm. I didn't.
My neighbor, Bill Gilbert, tells a story of a nocturnal bathroom trip. He was heading toward the toilet to do what so many men our age must do during the wee hours. Bare feet. No light.
On his way, he heard the dreaded crunch. Under his foot.
He was positive he had stepped on a scorpion. And he was correct. Light revealed an incredibly efficient killing machine.
He was lucky not to have been stung.
A day or two later, another neighbor was not so lucky. She picked up a towel and was nailed by one of the local small beige scorpions that carry quite a wallop in their tails.
A sting bad enough she had to seek medical care.
I have been rather lucky with scorpions. With the exception of one sting in San Miguel de Allende last year (float like a butterfly, sting like a scorpion), I have enjoyed the status of neutral observer of scorpions during my nocturnal adventures.
Late last week, I found myself in the same position as my friend Bill. I needed to get up for that trek to the toilet. No lights. No sandals. Even though I should have learned from those who have journeyed before me.
I had barely taken three steps when I felt a crunch and a small stabbing in my right foot. I would like to say I remained calm. I didn't.
I hopped over to the light switch and expected to see a smashed scorpion. Not there.
What was there was a smashed land crab (yes, it is that season again) about the size of a ten peso piece (north of the border: think of a quarter).
The pain was from the cracked shell. A small abrasion. Certainly not worthy of medical attention.
What was there was a smashed land crab (yes, it is that season again) about the size of a ten peso piece (north of the border: think of a quarter).
The pain was from the cracked shell. A small abrasion. Certainly not worthy of medical attention.
So, will I turn on the light or slip on sandals for the inevitable multiple trips to the bathroom each night? Probably not.
After all, what type of story begins: "While wearing sandals, I stepped on a scorpion"?
After all, what type of story begins: "While wearing sandals, I stepped on a scorpion"?
