I hate to continue in the Lord of the Rings references, but this spider was big.

Shiny, black and the size of my toddler’s fist. On a rational level, I’m a live and let live sort of guy. Especially in regards to spiders. I don’t mind so much when they build webs in my shrubs, near the outside doorlight or by the trashcans.

They have a job to do.

I don’t even mind when they build webs inside, next to the basement window. After all, they’re helping keep out other insects. While I was never the sort of guy that would cuddle spiders, I’m not terribly freaked out by them either. I sort of like them, especially after reading Anansi Boys.

This creature, however, was excessively large and crawling along the basement floor. Something clicked inside and I knew immediately that this Thing shall not be permitted to live in my home.

Even a few years ago, I would have found a way to capture it and release it outside, a kindness I currently bestow upon the stinkbugs.

Now, I don’t claim to know if this is scientific truth or not, but babies exude some  sort of pheromone that has a permanent effect upon fathers. It manifests itself in a number of ways, as certainly they must upon women as well, for example:

  • An urge to vacuum, at least when nearby children are in the creeping and crawling stage.
  • Spontaneous, and utterly unbelievable, lying for the sake of amusement or consolation. (“I saw your ‘Dollar Bunny’ this morning, driving to the market in a sleek litte roadster, what do you think he was off to buy?” or “Honey, the balloon went to the moon to visit its friends. Don’t worry, Trader Joe’s will have more.”)
  • Vomit, feces, urine or any other form of bodily secretion no longer are capable of offending me, provided they are coming from a small child and not, say, some bum at the train station.
  • Constant threat analysis. Much like the point-of-view shots from the Terminator, I’m constantly evaluating objects and situations that could pose a threat to my child or any others in the vicinity. Frequently, this comes in the form of chilling precognitive episodes where my child is snatched by flying monkeys, falls off the porch or chokes on that nickel she insists on holding.

This spider triggered a new sense: blind monkey panic. Sight of this spider ignited a cascade of chemical reactions within my brain that awoke a variety of “Fight or Flight” genes whose protein products I have never before known.

When I couldn’t find the bat — must, must clean the basement — I picked up a flashlight and the extension tube for my shopvac and pounded the beast into spider paste. I do believe I was hooting and defecating in monkey horror at the same time as well, but I can’t quite remember.

This creature, roughly 1/10,000th of my size was, somehow, a threat to my child and needed to be destroyed. I would have marched a thousand men into direct machine gun fire if it were the only way to kill that spider. I would have razed houses had they been in my path. Destroyed worlds.

Not out of cold-bloodedness or some misguided duty to my species — but at the stark knowledge that there was a predator in my midst.

It. Must. Be. Vanquished.

By Crom, I only hope it served as a warning to its kind and not incitement for retaliation.

So I squished it. Pretty gross too and surprisingly meaty.