I have a long-running war with spiders. There have been a number of incidents. Led by my nemeses, the yellow sac spiders.
It is obvious that they have it in for me. I reciprocate, with the exception of one brief pause in hostilities.
When I first moved into my house, I discovered a spider under the bottom step of the basement stairs. It was a typical Broad-faced Sac Spider. Black or dark brown, with a phat ass and no markings that indicated any death-dealing gang affiliations.
Like any amateur naturalist, I let it live. I even set up a camera to see what it was up to while I wasn’t around. I named her George. I did not hug and squeeze her. We hadn’t gotten that close yet.
We never would.
You see, one day I discovered that George had made four egg sacs. Not just one, four. George did not understand what being a good houseguest meant. George and George’s progeny were dealt with harshly. With fire and harsh language.
I am no longer so easy-going with the eight-legged freaks. Other than the funnel web spiders. They stay encamped in the basement windows and don’t bother me. Plus, I find the whole funnel web thing nifty. I respect their moxie. Just twang the outside of that funnel and see what happens.
I don’t see an end to this war of ours. Unless they call in paratrooper support.
As they did in Goulburn, New South Wales, Australia.
I know about webs in the beard. Nothing screws up a morning run like plowing face first into a five foot diameter web built between trees.
Shake, shake, shake it off. And shudder. And whirl around like a dervish. Then lay down and cry because you will never convince yourself that bad girl isn’t on you still. Waiting to strike.
Or lay eggs in your beard.
Ballooning baby spiders sounded so much cooler in Charlotte’s Web.