Sunday night—or rather, Monday morning—9.18.06, 3 a.m. Thirsty. Where is water? Make way to kitchen. In dim nightlight see movement in sink. What's that?, I think. Turn light up a little more. Scorpion!!
Poor little guy. He was trapped by the curved and shiny sides of the sink. I couldn't kill him; it would have been unfair advantage. Instead I scooped him (NO, not with my hands), carried him outside, and dumped him into the garden, never to be seen again (touch wood).
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