Our recent brief deluge seems to have driven the arachnids inside. I intercepted a tick on my thigh, on the way to no-man's-land. And another on my knee. And a spider hanging out on the base of the shower stall. Of course, I suspect they hitched a ride on Hick's about-the-grounds clothing, rather than scurrying about in black-and-white striped shirts and black bandit masks, seeking entry under the front door in the dead of night.
Both ticks were given a free pass on our subterranean water slide. The same fate was planned for Mr. Spider. He had other ideas.
Mr. Spider was tiny by Backroads standards. Nothing like the Diomedes fishing spider that Hick has twice hauled into the house, to show me. He was half the size of a dime. But you never can be quite sure when Mr. Spider is Mrs. Spider, full of tiny babies that will jump off her back when she is jostled.
I thought I would quickly squeeze Mr. Spider between a couple of squares of toilet paper, and send him on his watery thrill ride. But no. He had other ideas. Namely, charging me like a madman when I reached down to the baseboard where he had scurried. CHARGED ME! Came running straight at my sock foot. Like John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn charging Lucky Ned Pepper, guns ablazin', in True Grit.
Of course I stepped aside. No spider is going to run up my leg slick as a whistle. No sirree, Bob! Mr. Spider was so speedy, he was a blur moving across the shower mat, onto the tile. I watched in horror as he disappeared into the air conditioning vent.
Please, please, please...don't let a shower of spider babies shoot out onto my face as I sleep.