Eight-legged Wonders

I have always been fascinated by spiders.
When other girls wanted ponies, I wanted a tarantula.
Of course, I would have settled for a pony…don’t get me wrong. I am still a girl.

When we were children my brother and I were given a pet mouse each, in a little plastic tank.
My mother was assured by the pet owner that they were both male.
Let’s just say, she got a very quick lesson in ‘buyer beware’ and we were delighted to end up with a dozen little pink mouslings each.

I find that ironic today, when I live in a house populated by mouse-sized spiders and spider-quick mice.
I obviously got over my affection for mice (as did my mother, who, until I was in my 20s, insisted that our cat Fluffy had, one day, unlatched both mouse tanks without eating any of our little babies and they had all escaped into the back paddock – perhaps to join the Rats of NIMH).
But when the mice were gone, I remember trapping a huge huntsman – a regular visitor in our rainforest home – and insisting that he was a Tarantula and keeping him in the mouse tank.

This is what happens when you encourage your children to watch National Geographic specials instead of Saturday morning cartoons.

Apparently Fluffy set my Tarantula free as well…she must have been a wily old Puss, that’s all I have to say.

The week we were all here cleaning up I was bitten by a Redback – we saw several huge ones, as big as grapes.
Mum smashed half of my crockery because she pulled out a pile of dishes and a Huntsman catapaulted out of the cupboard at her.
Even the handyman commented on the size of the spiders – but then he was impressed by our six-foot-snake and the nest of UberRats it was lunching on underneath one of the old greyhound kennels.
Even after all the spider bombs, the kids found a really huge Huntsman in one of the toyboxes which even frosted with Mortein, refused to die. So, in true Steve Irwin fashion I took my longest barbecue tongs and lifted it out from its camouflage of Barbies and Batmans – the bastard thing was so strong I could feel it pushing the tongs apart.

Now, once again, I have a pet ‘Tarantula’.
With the Kids insisting on sleeping in my bed nowadays, I often sit up reading in the lounge until they’re settled.
After weeks of spider bombs, surface spray, DIY spider spray and plain old Pea-Beau spiders were obviously the last of my concerns.
So when I heard the pile of drawings the kids had left on the floor, next to my couch, rustle – I assumed it was a damn mouse (and oh how I wished Fluffy was still alive, right at that moment).
Imagine my shock when I flipped up the crayoned self-portraits to discover a matchbox-sized huntsman with huge spindly legs.
Leaping for the non-organic, highly-toxic and completely unethical anti-spider spraypack that now lives in my lounge room, I chased the monster under the couch which I picked up one-handed to spray underneath.

I missed.
In fact, four nights in a row – I’ve missed.

We might just have to name him and welcome him into the family.
Until then, at least he’s keeping the bastard earwigs out of the house.