It’s tarantula season here on my hilltop, that time
each fall when, for about a month, the male of the species emerges from its
underworld to wander the hillsides in search of a mate, while the female stays
at home in her cozy burrow waiting to be wooed. No word on her criteria, but even if she
does accept the advances of her eager caller, she may decide to kill and eat
the hapless chap in her post-coital desire for a snack. And that’s what’s known as a really bad
date.
When I was a city girl, insects terrified me. Especially spiders. I bought Raid by the crate. When an unfortunate arachnid crossed my path,
I’d drown the thing in a wave of toxins, spraying until the entire can was empty
and nearly asphyxiating myself in the process.
I am personally responsible for that hole in the ozone we hear so much
about. But all of that is in the past. I have given up my murderous ways. For the last 20 years, I have been a country
girl and learned that most of the natural world would just as soon avoid us if
at all possible. And really, who can
blame it?
This year, I allowed a Daddy Long Legs to take
up residence in one corner of my living room.
It had not the slightest interest in me and it kept the mosquito population
down. I named her Beatrice when I
suspected she was “with eggs” and, alas, had to evict her before her kids could
hatch and get used to HDTV. As with all
such evictions, it involved an empty pint-size ice cream carton placed
carefully over the intruder, while a piece of cardboard is gently slipped
underneath. Then I march its creepy
little ass back to the great outdoors.
Each time I hope that one of them will turn out to be of the magic
variety and, for my kindness, will bestow upon me the proverbial three
wishes. I’m still waiting.
This week, on his way to a fate still unknown, a
tarantula mistakenly wandered through my open front door. My cat, Mason, never known for his bravery, alerted
me to the intruder just in time for me to see the last of its long, hairy legs
disappear behind the TV cabinet.
Hollywood has given these docile creatures a bad
rap. Once the critter realized that it had been
spotted, it scurried to hide. The only
thing worse than a tarantula loose in one’s house is a tarantula-in-hiding in
one’s house, and so the need to capture and relocate my frightened, furry
friend took on a certain urgency.
In the old days, I would have taken a bat and beaten
the bejeezus out of the thing, while screaming at an octave only heard by dogs
and peeing myself. Instead, I dumped
out a shoebox (clearly, the pint-size ice cream carton was not going to do),
grabbed a broom and managed to gently coax the big guy inside. Then I walked up the hill, looked for a
ground hole that might contain the next Mrs. Tarantula and deposited him quietly
beside it. I do hope the bitch didn’t eat him.
