As you well know, My Beloved is an avid and accomplished hunter. When he is on the hunt, game beware. The man will trek 15 miles into the Trinity Alps during an Indian Summer heat wave in search of a buck. He has multiple game heads mounted and ready to hang in commemoration of his kills–although we have yet to find a suitable place outside the house to hang them. Despite the tenacious heart of a hunter, for some reason, when it comes to insects, My Beloved suddenly transforms into some kind of pacifist Buddhist monk.
Case in point, just prior to my Ranch relocation, I had the grave misfortune of finding a very large spider, of the “terrifying” variety in my bathroom. Hearing the shrieking, My Beloved came running, like the dutiful man he is. I immediately ordered its swift execution. I should have noticed the minute hesitation in his countenance. I assumed that with my decree, the errant arachnid would be promptly meet it’s maker. It is never that simple.
About 5 minutes later, believing the area was spider-free (and therefore safe), I walked back into the bathroom and entered the commode area to finish what I started. From my seated position, I could see the trashcan where My Beloved deposited the tissue holding what I believed to be the intruder’s crushed remains. Within seconds, I could see the edges of the tissue rustling and brown legs emerging. Instead of having a peaceful tinkle, I witnessed a resurrection.
The spider was back and mad as hell. The shrieking started up again, like an air raid siren. This time, it was peppered with expletives and a healthy degree of inquiry about the quality of My Beloved’s work. What had gone wrong? My Beloved is an enthusiastic administrator of “the beat down,” when need be. Had he gone Benedict Arnold on me? Was he part of a scheme to help the spider fake it’s own death, thus avoiding my death warrant? Wait a minute…I swear I saw a couple books by the Dalai Lama in his collection. To this day, he has never offered a reasonable explanation for this calamity.
Fast forward several months to The Ranch and yet another “spider in the bathroom” incident. This time, the spider was larger and faster. My Beloved had his work cut out for him. My screams roused him from the Giants game he was watching. Tissue in hand, he knew the drill. This time, when he pulled his “I’m not squeezing tight enough to kill this thing” turn-coat shenanigans, it bit him in the ass. For the first time in my life I heard My Beloved scream. It was a manly, Carhartt wearing, proud Marine scream, but it was a scream. The spider had made its way out of the tissue in his hand, and wrapped its hideous legs around one of his fingers. Cringe worthy indeed.
Just this past weekend there were a few suspiciously ineffective attempts at murdering flies and a wasp that made their way into our house. Although they were killed “dead,” it was only under my vigilant supervision that they received the death knell. My Beloved claimed to have dispatched a “huge” spider on our porch, but I have my doubts.
Clearly the timing of this rant is fortuitous. Just moments ago, My Beloved knocked me out of the way in order to prevent my contact with a large brown spider seated on our mahogany window frame–clever and rather devious camouflage. He ran to get a rag, which he immediately twisted in order to “snap” at the disgusting bugger. My Beloved marksman, inexplicably missed and according to his account, it jumped out of sight. Right. I am convinced that he is in cahoots with the vile insects plaguing this house.
Like any self respecting Parisienne at heart, I decided to direct my attention elsewhere until I can find a suitable solution to this treasonous, unholy alliance. Champagne tasting! Cin-cin for now.
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