I Will Never Be an Entomologist

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Last night, I went into the kitchen, sat down, looked to the side, and screamed. Any human with an instinct of self-preservation would have done so. There was a large, unknown bug hugging the cabinet. It was maybe two inches across, with a spider's legs and a strange, oval body, with jaws, and beige and brown splotches. And, as it moved and my horror increased, wings tightly folded against its abdomen. I smushed up two paper towels, picked up the bug with them, took it to the bathroom and flushed it into oblivion. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't the first and won't be the last. I close the door to my study every evening when I go to bed so the cats don't throw a party in there. Friday morning I opened it. Looking down to walk around the cat who was contemplating entering or not, I noticed a large spider in the door jamb. I also noticed it had been smashed. Apparently, when I closed the door the night before, I had unknowingly killed it. At least I had been spared the sight of a large, living spider. And everyone in the house was spared a scream.

One of the problems with living in the country are the bugs. Of all kinds. Because, just as we seek the interior of our warm houses when the temperatures start to go down and the rain sets in, so do they. Every fall, I will open or close a door, and see an enormous spider lying in wait for my vocal cords to activate. Sometimes I will see a strange species, like last night. I'm sure the neighbors must be used to my annual screams by now. I know my husband is. Last night he didn't even bother to ask what had happened. I just mentioned "Bug," and he nodded. At least it's nice to be understood.

 

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