Even here in Slug Central, nobody expects to see slugs at the end of November and nobody expects to see them in the house, ever. But there one was this morning in the laundry room, far from the door, making its way quickly (for a slug) toward my feet. To protect your delicate sensibilities, I did not take a photo*. This was not a huge slug, a little wider than a pencil and about 4" long, but it was not one of the pill-sized infants that have been known to hitch a ride on an Airedale's fuzzy foot. How and when had it gotten in through the back door? Did it slip through a crack in search of warmer habitat? Had it been lurking for weeks, coming out during the night to feast on any morsels the parrots had dropped?
Since I always keep plastic newspaper sleeves beside the back door for easy poop-scooping on walks, I scooped up the slug and put it in the trash, feeling somewhat guilty at condemning it to a nasty death by suffocation. But it was a slug and it was on my territory.
*She didn't take a photo because she was hopping around going, "Eeeewwww, eewww, eeewww," and she had to get the poor, innocent slug out of sight asap.--Yr friend, Miro.