Spider Wrangler

It's Sunday morning. The house is quiet. Chores are being performed in various parts of the house.

An ungodly, high-pitched scream comes from the bathroom. I can hear the terror behind it. I know immediate action is required. There's a spider threatening a human.

I abandon the broom in my hand. I turn three times in place, transforming myself from chore-doing, comfy-clothes-wearing, every-day-citizen into the ass-kicking, name-taking Spider Wrangler.

I run into the bathroom, my two trusty steeds - basset and mutt - behind me. The human is pointing at her hand. In a voice so high the words barely sound English, she says, "It landed on my hand! It landed on my hand!"

My chest involuntarily puffs out. My hands land on my hips. My cape flaps in the breeze. "Where is it?" I ask, my voice echoing off the bathtub.

She points in a general direction, making high-pitched noises that cannot be decoded. But I'm the Spider Wrangler. I can use my senses to find the spider. After searching high and low, I ask again, "Where is it?"

"Right there," she says as she points. She is hysterical.

I see it. It's the size of a nickel and brown as an overripe banana. It's nasty, dirty looking. This spider wants to dance.

The spider and I make eye contact. I'm not one to take a life, but this spider is telling me it wants to bite every member of my family and drink a beer while watching the skin around the bites slowly die. I announce, chest out, hands on hips, "This spider is going in the toilet!"

The human, not bothering to hide her fear, says, "I have to clean the toilet!"

It's a good thing, as the Spider Wrangler, I always have a Plan B.

I bark out orders: Open the back door! Steeds, get out of the way! Spider, don't go anywhere! I run into the living room, retrieve a large piece of mail, and go back into the bathroom. Everyone clears out. It's just the two of us: Spider and Wrangler.

I hold the piece of mail down on the ground, offering the spider a chance to be the bigger person. He bares his teeth, says, "I'm not getting on that, Wrangler. You want me, you're gonna have to come get me!"

Oh, it's like that, motherfucker?

He cuts left, I lie the piece of mail down. He heads for the wall; I quickly slide the piece of mail down the wall, cutting off access. He starts to run behind the toilet; I lie the mail down in his path and he unknowingly climbs aboard. I take two steps; he launches off the mail. "Shit!" (As the Spider Wrangler I curse more than when I'm an average citizen.) I get him back onto the mail and step out into the hallway. He jumps off again. "You little fucker!" The human screams. She's frozen with terror. I take a quick look to see the backdoor isn't open. "Open the backdoor!" I say, my voice echoing down the hallway. The trusted steeds fly outside. The human is, I don't know what she's doing - she's standing at the backdoor making weird noises, like she's being pricked with a million pins. I use the piece of mail to try and flick the spider out the door.

Big mistake.

He lands behind the human's legs. He's making a getaway, using the human as cover. The human is on the verge of having a heart attack. She dances in place for a good long while, obstructing my view and approach. I use my left arm to inch her out of the way and get the little bastard back on the mail. In a combined effort, the human opens the screen door, I hold out the mail, and there stands the basset, right in the path of disposal. I take my eye off the spider for a second, look back down, and he's gone. I keep my cool, casually looking at the piece of mail, the basset, my clothes to see if, in one last vain attempt, the spider clung to any of these things to get back inside. I don't see him. My chest pops out. My hands land on my hips. I give the signal: "All clear!"

Shortly after, the human asks me if the spider rode back in on the basset. I tell her no; the basset is not the Trojan Horse.

Being the Spider Wrangler comes with great responsibility. The Spider Wrangler must speak with confidence, insist the spider is gone, and save the family at any cost.

Don't tell my wife I lost track of the spider. The gig will be up.