“Watch out for the dead slugs,” I heard my friend shriek as I skipped over the dried skin and guts smeared about the sidewalk. The slugs lay trampled on the gray concrete near the entrance of her dorm. They were streaks of green, white, tan and black covered in dirt and made crispy by the sun.
They were leopard slugs. One of the only slugs I can differentiate due to their size and their pattern of black inkblot markings on a tan, glimmering, smooth membrane. The design, as the name hints, resembles a leopard pelt. Their length hits 4 inches and sometimes 8, considerably larger than your everyday garden slug.
Only a day or two before this scene, when the rain had been pouring and the air was thick with the smell of mud, I had seen a live slug of the same type in the exact same spot. After observing for a moment with what would be described as a mix of fascination and disgust, I ferried the little passenger, using a piece of paper to keep my distance. I transported my pilgrim to the side where pavement meets grass and where unwary pedestrians would be less likely to trample the smaller citizen making its way about the path as well. I have no particular affinity for slugs or worms, or any slimy creatures of that nature. However, I will admit I felt sympathy for the slippery soul trying to make its way in a place it had no place being, in a place where its life could be extinguished so easily and uneventfully.
Several days later, the sun had returned and, despite my attempt, the carcasses of not one, but three of these little travelers lay ground into the coarse pavement, causing my friend no small amount of distress upon exiting or entering her dorm. Some casualties cannot be stopped, I suppose. Even so, I wondered if the people who had trod on them had unintentionally ended the lives of the little streaks of slime, or if they had done it with a purposeful stomp and drag. I also wondered why these slugs had all chosen to travel on the pavement in the first place, instead of staying in the relative safety of the soil and grass where they belonged. Originally, I had thought that the answer was simple. The heavy rainfall must have rendered their usual home of soil and turf uninhabitable, forcing them to escape. They obviously could not live in such waterlogged conditions. Like victims of a flood, fleeing for higher and drier ground, these slugs must have been searching for a place to wait out the rain.
Satisfied with my own answer, I continued on up the stairs following my friend to her dorm, only mourning their disastrous end about as much as I mourned the death of my distant aunt who lived in one of those Midwestern states I can never remember. Distant was their existence from mine. They were only a few feet away in reality, but separated by scale and “intelligence,” these slugs were simply an unfortunate mess to be avoided as I went on my way.
It was not until recently that I learned the actual reason these slugs had been all about the pavement. Although it was a common belief for years that worms, slugs and other animals of that sort had been drawn out of their homes during heavy rain by the risk of drowning, the theory has changed. Unlike humans, these creatures breathe through the many pores in their skin, and they do not drown easily. In fact, they need moisture in the air and soil to survive. The main theory now is that rain provides these critters with an extraordinary chance for travel.
Traveling below the earth or close to soil and grass can be a slow and tough method of travel. Pushing through hot gravel, roots and grass prevents an easy voyage. The cool rain allows these creatures to survive above the earth in places they could not normally last for long. They can travel greater distances much quicker than on the average warm day, using the abundance of moisture to glide about the terrain.
Every day, I cross the same terrain so easily. It is the scale, again. The scale keeps us distant. Feet to me are like miles to them, and yet they still travel and attempt to get where things may be better. How can I get to where I want to be, even if I do not know where that is? I feel the danger involved with cutting out the paths I need to take. I desire to avoid the danger, afraid to be trampled by life. The slugs and worms take the risk to find green leaves and dandelions in plenty. They travel in storms, rain their aid, over scabrous manufactured tar. Although the scale is different, it is familiar all the same. The leopard slug is only indigenous to Europe, a distant continent even for human beings. Thousands of miles of salty ocean divide us. Yet, they made the crossing despite their size, and so did we. How distant are these creatures really, and why do they seem braver than me?
Kyle Bussino, a sophomore, is a computer science major at Penn State Harrisburg.
