There were no witnesses, but all I said was, “Get Fred off the table and away from the food.” I thought it was a reasonable request, but from the look on her face I was out of line. Who knew a first-grader with beautiful hazel eyes nestled above cherub cheeks could shoot such a menacing look?

I was momentarily intimidated, but I also knew I had age, size and rank on her.

“Now,” I said.

She picked up Fred, who was nibbling on leaves in a plastic food storage container covered with a scrap of window screen, and walked away in a cloud of indignation.

Fred is a chubby, fuzzy Isabella caterpillar, more commonly known as a woolly bear caterpillar. Unfortunately, Fred has already had two close brushes with death.

When Fred stopped moving several weeks ago, the father of Fred’s keeper assumed Fred was dead and planned to throw him away when they returned home from their walk. Apparently, Fred overheard the conversation and rallied.

Last week, her mother was doing laundry and found a woolly caterpillar stuck to a T-shirt of Fred’s keeper. Her mother’s heart raced to think how close Fred had come to death by washing machine. Turned out, it wasn’t Fred at all, but a second woolly.

Full disclosure: I’ve been on the child’s watch list ever since the butterfly incident this past summer. When the family was moving from one home to another, they moved in with us for a brief time. I transported the girls’ and their butterfly net cage holding five chrysalises, from their house to ours by car. Somewhere enroute, three soon-to-be butterflies fell from their perch and tumbled to the bottom of the net cage.

“Grandma killed the butterflies!” one yelled.

“I did not kill the butterflies,” I said.

“You were shaking them!” one cried.

“I never touched them!”

“It was your driving! You were driving wild and shaking them.”

“I did not drive wild! We were on bad roads with potholes!”

One day you’re a beloved grandma who bakes wonderful chocolate chip cookies and the next day you’re Grandma the Butterfly Killer. It’s a tough life.

As the “Yes, you did” and “No, I didn’t” drama continued, one of the girls quietly reattached the chrysalides to the top of the cage.

Days and weeks passed. I hoped, I prayed, I held my breath. The butterflies hatched and were released.

I was exonerated. Another close call for Grandma.

What Fred’s young caretaker doesn’t know, and I’m certainly not about to tell her, is that Fred will have to move outside soon so he can freeze solid. This is the only way Fred will emerge as an orange moth in the spring.

My plan is to be nowhere in the vicinity when all of this goes down. With any luck, we’ll be clear out of town.

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