There’s a giant spider in our garage.
I don’t mean a live one, of course; if it was, I’d be making tracks for Alaska. It’s dead, dead, dead, and has been for three weeks. Allegedly. At least, it seems dead from twenty feet away.
Normally, I have no issues with dead spiders. This one, however, has been sitting in the same corner of the garage for weeks, waiting for me to open the door and turn on the light so that it can reanimate itself as a zombie acromantula and devour my jugular vein.
The Man, who killed it, is concerned it could be a dangerous kind, and wants to identify it. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a wasted step. I don’t care how benevolent it claims to be, any spider that large deserves to be confronted with screams, running, and/or half a can of full-strength bug spray. But I’ll defer to the Man on this one, mostly because I don’t want to go closer than twenty feet, and my broom is only six feet long.
The problem is that the spider is not getting identified. It’s not really the Man’s fault. Any attempts to bring it indoors and classify it using some website created by whatever psychologically disturbed people actually like these creatures would be met with resistance. And by resistance, I mean hyperventilation and a garble of mostly unintelligible four-letter words and threats of divorce.
So it gets forgotten, until I open the garage door, see it, and gasp amid heart palpitations, “We’ve GOT to do something about that thing!”
Every day, I inch that much closer to cardiac arrest.