Wolf spiders, snakes, bats and other intruders
The other day, just as I prepared to slip on a pair of running shorts that been draped over a deck railing, I noticed something moving.
“Hmmm. I wonder if I should examine these shorts more closely before putting a hideous, eight-legged creature with two menacing, pincer-like appendages so close to my skin?” I asked myself — or words to that effect.
It took me about 0.037 seconds to recognize that what appeared to be (before it moved) an athletic-apparel accessory was in fact a wolf spider, a hulking, brutish arachnid that resembles the more familiar, spindly daddy longlegs about as much as former Chicago Bears defensive tackle William “The Refrigerator” Perry looks like Olga Smirnova, principal dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet.
Anyway, I decided to delay donning the shorts until I had relocated the spider, which I realized is capable of delivering a painful, venomous bite in precisely the region you would least prefer to be bitten.
The simplest, most effective course of action would have been to drop a 17-pound chunk of granite that I sometimes use as a doorstop on the spider, or mash it with a splitting maul I keep next to the wood shed, but I disdain most forms of violence. Plus, those maneuvers would damage the deck.
Instead, I carefully edged toward the railing and shook the shorts like a pom-pom. A moment later, the creature sailed into the air, arced over the rhododendrons and landed with a thud on the ground.
OK, it wasn't exactly a thud, but when I scurried to examine the spider it lunged toward me — toward me! — as if to sneer, “You want a piece of me? OK, pal, let's go!”
Not wishing to prolong the confrontation I retreated, pulled on the now spider-free shorts and hotfooted it in the opposite direction.
Why do spiders, bugs and other critters feel compelled to take up residence in human domain? A better question to ask is, why do humans persist in building homes in wildlife habitat?
There are no good answers to either query, only an observation that every so often there are inter-species border wars.
The shorts episode was not
my first territorial clash with a wolf spider. A few years ago, after feeling something stirring in my running shoe, I stopped a mile or so into my ramble, removed the footwear, shook it, and out popped a Lycosidae, derived from the Greek word for wolf.
I can't imagine a less desirable place to hole up than in one of my running shoes. It would be like deciding to burrow into a pile of rotting fish guts at Stonington Town Dock.
Anyway, the hapless spider somehow managed to crawl away.
Another time, I found my boot had been occupied not by a wolf spider but by an angry hornet. Miraculously, it flew away rather than stung.
Snakes also seem enchanted by items used by humans, as my wife, Lisa, discovered one day while kayaking on a lake. Both she and the reptile wound up in the water.
I also once pondered why a belt was hanging from a pipe in the laundry room only to realize, with a cry that could have been heard in Chicago, that it was a black racer slithering toward the dryer.
Speaking of the dryer, that's one appliance I almost never use. In the winter I hang wet clothing on hooks next to the wood stove and in summer laundry dries on the clothesline, which reminds me of another time when I reached into the clothespin bag and a bat flew out.
Don't get me started on mice. My most recent unpleasant episode involved one that had built a nest under the hood of my car and chewed through wires leading to the ignition switch, resulting in a $300 repair bill.
The lesson I've learned is to look carefully before putting on clothes that have been hanging outside, before stepping into a kayak, or before starting your car.
It's either that or move to a hermetically sealed condo.