I found a spider, the other day, prowling about on my kitchen countertop. I hate spiders. Despise them, in fact. So, I devised a way of removing the awful thing without killing it and getting spider juice all over the surface where I prepare my food.
My cunning plan was to place a jar over it, immobilizing it in the hope that it would climb up the side long enough for me to put a lid over it and transport it into the great outdoors, where it belongs.
Immediately, it started running laps around the jar, totally oblivious to the fact that jars were made for climbing (were they not?). After waiting for fully half-a-minute, I got distracted by other things and forgot about it there. Until . . .
More than 24 hours later, I rediscovered said arachnid, sitting listlessly near the edge of the jar. Apparently, it had tired of running circles around the circumference of its prison and had resigned itself to certain death.
Always the humanitarian, I took it upon myself to free the wee beastie from its misery (and my house) and promptly found a piece of paper to slide under the jar and transport it out.
About the time I reached the patio, the loathsome thing came back to life, obviously sensing its impending freedom, and tried to make a break for it. Out it slipped from beneath the mouth of its glass cell and started to run, liberated, across the page toward my hand.
Horrified, I moved quickly to escape his hairy legs on my skin (not to mention a wicked set of fangs, I have no doubt, just itching with a 24-hour vendetta). I dropped the paper – – and then, in the confusion, the jar. Down went the paper with the spider, joie de vivre renewed. Down went the jar, on top of it, killing it instantly.
“Och. Isn’t it ironic?” I thought, and went inside.
– Story and photo by Lori-Anne Poirier