the birds and the bees and the story of the spider

So my neighbors moved away last month and as I anticipated, their renters are not filling the bird feeder that sits atop our shared fence. As much as I miss the avian activity, I am comforted to know that things are apparently now a bit more challenging for OC, my beloved serial killer. I haven't seen him munching on a headless carcass in a good while. I've also noticed he's been coming inside more often, looking to play with me. He's bored. I benefit.

In addition to having less bird blood on my hands, I've also found myself in the position to save a good number of bees lately. I keep finding them in the tide line, struggling, dragging their worthless wet wings across the sand. I'm not sure why they are anywhere close to the ocean (very little flowering vegetation nearby) but I figure it's the wind that pulls them to the shore. Escorting them to the dunes has added considerably to my exercise and I'm happy to report that I'm finally on track with the whole excavating my real self from my fat self plan.

Funny enough, the bees started appearing just before I got up the nerve to give my contact info to the honey boys at Farmer's Market. I am hoping to become an amateur apiarist this summer. I'm told we need 15 more inches of rain before the bee farmers will need volunteers. So here's hoping for April showers and May flowers.

And though I've been good to the birds and the bees, I must say I am feeling a bit blue today for what I did to the spider. I discovered him on my desk this morning and while it was clear his plan was to flee like a well behaved arachnid, I was inspired to introduce him to Monkey. This was, I guess, pretty harmless as Monkey soon lost the trail. Feeling sorry for my pathetic indoor kitty, I decided to help Monkey resume the hunt (a couple of different times). He seemed excited. They appeared evenly matched. All was right in the world.

But a few minutes later I noticed the spider limping across the kitchen floor. Monkey had either lost track of him again or let him go. Surely this is the part where I scoop him up in my spider catcher and put him outside, right? Wrong. This is the part where I grab Monkey and have him finish the job. I knew right away that I had made a poor choice. Monkey was having fun, sure, but the spider wasn't. I cringed when I saw that he had crawled into a crack in the wood floor. I poked at his little legs hoping he was just hiding but he was not. He was dead. And I killed him. I have felt horrible ever since.

I was glad Erik was awake to serve as his pall bearer (removing dead spiders is so definitely penis work). And I immediately called and confessed to my sister and my best friend (you can take the girl out of the church, but you can't take the Catholic out of the girl, I always say...). My friend counseled that it was a valuable learning experience. She's very zen that way. My sister distracted me with niecelet, Grace. I told Grace I was sad cuz my cat had chased a spider and it died and she responded, "My cats can die. Lucy died. And Chet died, too." Poor Grace. She's got so many pets to watch pass. She's particularly cute about Lucy, though, that horrible dalmation that no one else loved. I'll never forget the time she called and told me, "I'm going to tell you a story about Lucy. I was worried about her. And then she died." Oh sweet Grace.

Anyway, Erik says I have to let the spider go. It's just mental clutter. Like the $6 Costco rebate I failed to use last year (if I drunk dialed you during the Super Bowl I am sure you heard all about it - repeatedly, apparently) and the $10 coupon I forgot to use at Ralph's when it was new so many years back. But then he went and reminded me of the crickets I bought for Fabe when he was an indoor city kitty. They crawled into the dark corners like roaches and Fabe showed no interest in them so I'm pretty sure he didn't actually kill any. Over the next two weeks we ended up tossing them out the window one by one. I'm almost certain that they died on impact after suffering virtual starvation. Sure, they were feeder crickets, but I think somehow the fate they had on Curtis Street was worse than death. So of course, remembering the crickets has made me feel worse, not better.

Sigh.