I Am the Spider Whisperer

My wife calls me the spider whisperer. I talk to them as I escort them out the door, releasing them with care to avoid breaking a fragile leg. Some escape briefly from the tissue to run along my hand or arm enroute to the door. But I capture them again. I don’t suppose that they understand my words, “there you go, have a nice day.” Perhaps they sense my harmless intent but who can be sure of the mind of a spider? Some seem more frightened than others, some play dead and some hop or scurry quickly. The one most afraid—or at least most difficult to catch as it fled up, down and all along walls and ceilings was the huge wolf spider that invaded the double-wide we rented in Mimbres while our dream house was under construction. Not quite as large as a tarantula, it still surpassed any other I had seen up close. Just a little hairy and a light tan color, it seemed a handsome predator—although certainly not one the wife wanted indoors. I never really got a hand on the guy, tissue covered or otherwise. Juanita just opened the door for me so I could steer it outside. It hung around for a few hours—perhaps in shock at its escape from what might have been death. Then it moved on, never to be seen again.

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