I do not approve of things with more than four legs. Whether inside or out, spiders, crickets, millipedes, centipedes and all other multi-pedes are my mortal enemies. Generally speaking, I do allow such creatures to live. It is not their fault that they are so terrifying and disgusting. But unless upon accident or while armed with gloves, shoes and a long stick, I will not touch them. That is why I have a husband.
Though nylon bristle brushes give him the heebie jeebies—I may or may not threaten to rub my hairbrush against his skin when he makes me mad—he will calmly cup his hands around a renegade kitchen spider and walk to the front door in order to set the creepy monster free. I then demand to know just how far outside the door he went with it so I can evaluate my chances of a second run-in with its beady eyes and eight ghastly legs.
Earlier this summer one spider got too close for comfort. I announced the issue via an instant message to my husband—while I was home and he was at work.
“We have a spider problem,” I said.
“Ha! YOU have a spider problem,” he replied.
“No. It is now YOUR problem because he is somewhere I don’t want him to live,” I said. “He is outside the bedroom window.”
“I will handle him,” he said. “Are you sure it’s a dude?”
“No. It could therefore be worse. It could be full of babies.”
“Give him a name,” he said. “Maybe Stanley or Ferdinand.”
“DIE SPIDER DIE.”
“Something German?”
“DIESOONENFREUD.”
I particularly hate crickets because they tend to look like spiders but can jump—and in truly horrible situations even fly. Nothing should have that many personal modes of transportation.
Our kitten, Mars, is a classic hunter of household wildlife, which I appreciate; however, he also loves to pick things up in his mouth and run away with them. As summer turned to fall, black, evil crickets began appearing out of nowhere, giving Mars hours of entertainment and me a constant source of panic.
I’d taken Bruce, our hound, outside to dispatch of his undercoat with the FURminator (no really, they’re amazing), and when we came back in, Mars was in the bathroom, hunched over and secretive. Figuring he had yet another cricket soon to meet its demise, I avoided the bathroom.
As I walked by again a few moments later, Mars had moved his catch to the hallway carpet—and Bruce had become interested too. And that’s when I saw that it wasn’t a cricket. Whatever it was, it was long, and it was pointed, and it did not appear to have legs.
My internal monologue at that moment is not fit to print. However, I knew that I had no choice but to deal with … it.
So I did the only thing I could do. I made the universal, buzzer-like sound at the quadrupeds then ran to the dining room where my lunch lingered.
And I grabbed a spoon.
Defensively armed, I rushed back to the hallway and again scolded Bruce and Mars. Mars dropped the thing. It was still and white. I poked it with the spoon. It rolled over. I screamed.
And a tiny five-lined skink with a bright blue, and slightly chewed, tail looked up at me.
I’ve always loved skinks. We had a family of skinks that lived on my parents’ back porch, often sunning themselves on the cedar planks and concrete walkway.
Thus the skink had to be saved.
Bruce and Mars, who my antics had whipped into excitement, again began to investigate the little lizard. I fussed at them again and ran to the kitchen where I grabbed a paper towel. I loosely wadded up the towel, cupped it around the skink, and ran squealing for the front door.
But on the porch there were bird feeders. I couldn’t let the skink be eaten just after nearly being eaten.
“So if you find a skink with the tip of its tail missing living on our trio of orchid cactus, that’s why,” I told my husband.
Whatever our fears may be, encountering them provides an adrenaline rush like no other. Though we once relied on adrenaline to save us from saber-tooth cats and bear-size hyenas, we now tend to fear much more esoteric threats like failure, public speaking or economic decline—modern manifestations of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
This issue of Smoky Mountain Living is dedicated to fear. Here’s hoping you overcome your own.