Saturday morning, Zack called from my parents' house.
He had caught a snake. (I have a feeling my Dad was an accomplice.)
"Can I bring Jimmy home?"
The harmless garter snake had been given a name by the high elders.
"Let me talk to Daddy."
The husband went to get Cricket-a-Roni, the Jimmy Allen Milton treat.
Lexi cried over the bugs.
That night, over dinner, the conversation took a turn for the worst.
"Papa used to catch tarantulas. He kept them as pets." Zack is captivated - never have more exciting words been spoken. I look at Greg, who adds, "So did I..."
I can't recount what he said, word for word. Something about them being fairly safe, but hard to catch. Because of the fangs.
I then made a proclamation heard round the block: THERE WILL BE NO PET SPIDERS IN THIS HOUSE. NO BIG, FURRY SPIDERS.
I circulated fliers, I drew up contracts. I made them pinky-swear, and take the needle-in-the-eye oath.
I have my limits. The line has been made...
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