The number pad next to the garage door has a tenant. There had been a small spider crawling across number nine. He was kind of cute. Spiders can be really helpful, even indoors. This guy was outdoors and he was really tiny. Still, I was hoping for mosquito control. That was two days ago.
Yesterday, there was a new tenant. This spider would not fit on number nine. Instead, this new squatter has covered the entire keypad and the surrounding area with a web. It's unfortunate that I can't get into the garage without tapping in a code and hitting pound. I want to pound the spider. I want to spray a pound of but killer on the unwelcome, eight legged - I peered closer - WAIT! Is that really an hourglass? This tenant has an hourglass? What color is that? Seriously? I chide myself. This is not the time to examine something that has a neurotoxic venom! Good grief. I glance around rapidly for a stick, a twig, something to brush the creepy, crawly critter into the grass and then I change my mind. If the spider falls into the grass, I'll never find it. It could, instead, find me! So, I rapidly and delicately push the keypad buttons with the end of the stick and raise the garage door. I need bug spray.
I hurry and park my car in the cool shady indoor space. I need to find my own poison before the spider gets away. I race into the house, hollering all the way for “Spider Spray.” Dad meets me at the laundry room, “What’s going on?” He opens the cabinet above the dryer while I nervously sputter out my dilemma. I don’t like spiders. He has Flying Bug Spray - no. Wasp and Hornet Spray - no. Ant, Roach, and Spider… YES! I take the can and Dad warns me on my way out into the garage not to get any of that on myself or I risk having a neurological shut-down. I glance at him as as open the interior garage door. Is he kidding? I remember something like this from years ago and the back door bugs. He has such a dry sense of humor. I never know if he means it. ”I’ll be careful," I say. I’m going to spray a neurotoxin before I’m bit and injected with a neurotoxin.
But you have to touch the keypad the next time you open the garage door," he reminds me.
I’m banging my way out the door and yelling over my shoulder. "I will use a baby wipe on it first," I reply, arriving at the pad. I already have the lid off the can and the nozzle is pointed carefully away from my face. I begin spraying and the spider starts an effort to escape. I have the element of surprise. I have the neurological shutdown spray. As it staggers down the web, all eight legs wobbling, I keep spraying until I feel sure it is thoroughly coated with poison. I feel a little guilty about the murder, but I look at the biohazard shape on the brown body and I don't feel like my being a victim of his brand of poison would not have been a comfortable choice for me. I'd rather be the killer in this case, and I try not to consider that this particular spider might eat mosquitos. I'll take my chances with the West Nile Virus. Is there no way to avoid being nourishment for the millions of ravenous bugs on this planet? I stand, spray canister in my hand, my sword against the hordes, and stare into the darkening evening, feeling vulnerable.
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Bugged
I only wanted to take a photo of the giraffe crossing sign that is in the flowerbed halfway down the yard. It was dark outside; the sun had recently set. I flipped on the light switches as I went out the door. There were two of them, one for the flood light and one for the back porch. The darkness in the back yard swallowed up the golden glow after fifteen feet. I walked across the green septic field in the dark, the lights behind me, and turned on the camera app on my iPhone. It might have been too dark to take a photo; the screen was practically black; but that giraffe crossing sign is reflective. I held out some hope that I could get a photo and kept walking. I stopped right at the edge of the garden. The black dirt was invisible. I felt like I would be stepping off the edge of the planet if I continued. I aimed the camera at the bright yellow sign. It barely showed on the camera screen. I snapped the photo anyway and turned toward the back door. Each blade of grass cast a long dark shadow that swallowed up the pasture. I stared into the black lawn, looking for shapes that might not be grass shadows. Puppies did come out here to do their business regularly. I didn’t want to step in anything smelly. All I succeeded in doing was straining my eyes. It was too dark to see anything beyond the golden glow created by the lights on the back of the house. I turned around and headed back to the door. At the edge of the patio, I picked up speed. Night deepened quickly, and I scurried in the back door, securely closing and locking it behind me; I turned both locks, listening for the clicks and jiggling the handle to make sure the French doors had closed tightly.
By Donna Marie5 years ago in Humans
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