“Aaaaaargh!” I heard someone moaning through my open office window yesterday. “Ohhhhhh…nooooo…Mommmmm!”
“Mom, a spider! I think it’s a black widow…” followed by the gate slamming as “the Thing,” that mighty tank of a little boy a.k.a Parker, ran out my garden into the front yard.
I’d asked the boys to clean out under and behind Roxy’s (one or our dog’s) “house,” pull out her bedding to be washed, and brush her prior to taking her to the groomer. (We couldn’t have her return to a messy, stinky home, could we?) This is routine pet care assigned to my resident, and very capable, super heroes, so I honestly did not expect to be called from my work to ward off arachnids.
“Par…ker…,” I couldn’t help “yelling” in response, “Who’s bigger? You or the spider?” No response. He was already too far away to hear.
Apparently, the dog hair that accumulated under and behind Roxy’s kennel had become home to a couple of spiders, which Tank didn’t notice until he was dumping the hair they’d swept and scooped into an old cat litter container. Hence, the moan and subsequent screaming. Though both boys swore that at least one of the eight-legged beasts was black, I couldn’t find it; in fact, I didn’t see ANY spiders at all.
In cases like these, I’m convinced my “Tank” is like Ferdinand in
The Story of Ferdinand, Munro Leaf's story about the bull who preferred sniffing flowers to bull-fighting – a veritable “flower” himself, beneath that brawny exterior.