i also enjoyed collecting the empty snail shells i found in the beds to use as future photography props. (i've a whole bag full of random nature things to shoot and throw away.)
one evening i noticed a large turd resting on top of the flowers. while i pondered what my cats were thinking, pooping on flowers, i went to get it off. closer inspection proved that it was far worse than cat poop. it was a snail. a gigantic turd sized snail. all this time i thought snails were cute. this one was huge and devouring my flowers.
the next morning i went outside with my morning coffee and my morning baby and all of the flowers were gone. the actual flower part anyway, and left in a slimy wake were hundreds of white tufts.
the anger, it did build. i knew you could pour salt on a snail and it would "melt." but that just seems really cruel. and gross. so i went organic and put out saucers of beer. everyone has a different explanation for why this kills snails, but i prefer my mothers: they get drunk, pass out and die.
my snails, apparently, need a keg. i think they're teenage snails. they got drunk, had sex and multiplied because by morning there were very few flowers left.
that night, while outside, i looked out at the sea of shiny snails finishing off my bed. i was particulary angry at this one snail who's slimy snail mouth was so visibly wrapping itself around an entire bud.
pms made me do it. i got the salt. i sprinkled and managed to glimpse an entire second of the disinigration before i was forced to run to the safety of the patio where i could barf under the light, if needbe. putting salt on a snail is like creating your own tiny b horror flick. multi colored bubbling and actual audible hissing and gurgling until your left with a slimy bubbly goo leaking out of what i used to think was a pretty shell.
it was awful. i felt awful. and yet, it was strangely satisfying. so i went to the next one. sprinkle and run. then i fanned out a wash of salt.
hiss. gurgle. melt. gag. karma is now fucked. the flowers will live. strangely satisfied.
the next day penn and i bought "bug getta" which i explained to penn, are like little "moving signs" to the snails. we're telling them they must move or die. i don't know what's worse, the bubbly carcass left by the salt or the nasty green goo left by the bug getta.
next day: i swear to you, fifty new flowers.