Legend holds that everything grows bigger in Texas–even spiders.
We spent the first three months of our marriage in Tyler, Texas. While I labored to establish myself as an engineer there, my wife whisked about, transforming our tiny apartment into a home. And we adapted to each other.
Our first major adjustment came after six weeks via a phone call: new wife was lonely and wanted a kitty for a companion. Not being a cat person, I answered authoritatively. "No cats for us; they have germs and suck the breath out of babies."
Her response was correspondingly plaintive. "Oh, p-l-e-a-s-e! There's a free kitty advertised on the radio, and I'm s-o-o-o-o lonely during the day. P-l-e-a-s-e." I digress to mention that I would soon receive the baptism of practicality: there's no such thing as a free cat.
This tense exchange continued until I succumbed to the ultimate trump-'em-all feminine strategy of sobbing and whining. "OK. OK. Get the cat." Her voice instantly brightened. "Oh, good! She's under the bed right now." And there Punkin hid for three full days… petrified.
Soon thereafter came another call, this one exuding sheer terror. New wife perched atop the dresser, screaming unintelligibly into phone. Eventually able to decipher references to an under-the-bed battle between a giant spider and the kitten, I streaked home and bounded to the rescue.
Having discovered a huge tarantula in the closet, my wife had bravely endeavored to arrest its hulking strides toward the bed by dropping my 20-pound toolbox squarely on its back. But for a Texas tarantula, the toolbox proved only a momentary inconvenience to its primary mission. Seeing its determination to engage Punkin in mortal combat ignited a fit of hysteria–and a scramble to higher ground. Growling and spewing from beneath the bed soon fueled the drama.
Except for quiet blubberings from the top of the dresser, silence reigned when I arrived. With no trivial trepidation, therefore, I carefully, tentatively began damage assessment.
Gingerly lifting the bedspread with a hammer (intended, of course, for the perpetrator), I peered underneath. No spider. But I did see a snoozing kitty, from all appearances unscathed.
But the spider must be found, my wife squalled, lest it do further harm.
I looked… and looked… and looked. Still no spider. But an arachnid the size of a soccer ball ambling about at will on legs of steel couldn't just evaporate. Punch a hole through the wall, perhaps, but not disappear without a trace
So I continued searching, hammer poised for a lightning strike of death.
Eventually I discovered an itsy-bitsy spider near the kitty. But understanding that spiders, even Texas tarantulas, instantly shrivel into compact balls upon death, there has never been any agreement whatsoever as to whether my find was THE SPIDER. A baby perhaps, but not Big Mama herself.
Countless marital adjustments have followed this one, many springing from one troublesome root. Facts are but a mirage, perceptions the Rock of Gibraltar.
Copyright 2003 James McAlister
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