If you are a naturalist or have entomological leanings and a sensitivity to the f-word, don’t read this. This is a story of the dreaded dock spider—and it is not a pretty one.
Dock spiders are those horrifying creatures that live in the dark undersides of your dock and come out in the spring and summer months. Where they go in the winter, I haven’t a clue and I don’t care. I only know that when I flipped our canoe over last weekend, four of them, the size of dinner plates, scuttled out and disappeared down the dock slats.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not anti-entomology and I’m not even that squeamish. My own father was a gentle geologist who often remarked that if he hadn’t studied rocks and soil, he would have liked to have studied insects. I grew up loving and living with all manner of creatures; my favorite poem was-and sometimes still is- Alexander the Beetle.
Because of this, my biologist husband, Mr. Precious, cannot understand why the common Dock Spider poses difficulties for me. “Why do they bother you?” he asks in his best Perplexed Biologist voice.
Why indeed.
Here’s f-ing why.
a) They are f-ing HUGE. They have a leg span of up to 13 cm that would cover your face if you let your guard down and allow them to jump you. Plus they have repulsive sac-like bodies the size of your fist. Apparently, some females “exhibit female giganticism.”FEMALE GIGANTICISM!!!???? WHAAAAAT THE F**%%$#&!!!?????
b) They’re f-ing disgusting. Don’t forget this is the same species that made Arachnophobia a huge hit in the 90s when a strange spider from the depths of a jungle is accidentally transported back to the good old US of A. Through numerous coincidences and accidents, it finds a home in a doctor's new home (well, in the barn). After mating with a local spider, thousands of little spiders run riot in the small town. This wouldn't be too much of a problem, except that these "aren't ordinary spiders"; they're killers.
c) The f-ers DON’T DIE. You can smack them straight on with the flat of a paddle, only to see them re-inflate their disgusting selves and stagger off to the nearest crack in the dock and slide down it sideways. Often they leave one long finger-y appendage out just to remind you that they’re still there, alive—and pissed.
c) They move f-ing FAST. They appear out of nowhere, and lurch at you suddenly and unexpectedly, their bodies hunched up hideously over their grotesque legs.
d) There is never just one of them. They live in f-ing COLONIES or something.
e) The f-ers DON’T DIE. You can squash them flat under your heel and, when you raise your boot to survey the squashings, they scuttle horridly over the side of the dock to lurk there even more flatly and furtively.
f) UGLY.
g) They know how to F-ING SWIM, fer gawds sakes. Drowning them is not an option. They actually have some sort of HAIR on their creepy legs that traps BUBBLES so they can BREATHE under the water for something like FIFTEEN f-ing minutes!
h) The f-ers DON’T DIE! You can cut them down with your axe and they’ll still come at you. Cut off a leg, and they’ll flail towards you with 7. Cut off four, and they’ll drag themselves forward with the stumps trailing. Cut ‘em all off and they’ll fork themselves along with their fangs. They’re like Monty Python’s Black Knight, except Not Funny. King Arthur (cutting off both the Black Knight’s arms) : Look, you stupid Bastard. You've got no arms left. Black Knight: Yes I have. King Arthur: *Look*! Black Knight: T’is nothing but a flesh wound.
Over breakfast on a recent summery morning, I said to Mr. Precious. “This morning you must go on a Killing Spree.” Mr. Precious looked at me blankly. “THE DOCK,” I explain. “To kill the f-ing dock spiders and closely inspect the kayak and canoe interiors for any intrusions.”
Mr. Precious sighed and pushed himself up from the table. He put on his boots and started to make his way down the trail to the dock below. About a third of the way down, he stopped and turned:
“They can’t actually help the way they look, you know,” he says in his best Reasonable-and-Reassuring Biologist’s Voice.
“They’re ugly,” I retort intelligently, from the safety of the deck above.
Mr. Precious continues downward, stops again and looks back. “They’re actually GOOD insects since they EAT the bad ones, like black flies and mosquitoes,” he says in his best Earnest-and-Instructional Biologist’s Voice.
“They are Opportunistic Ambush Hunters with fangs,” I retort, citing Wikipedia. “They GRAPPLE prey with their foremost legs that are equipped with CLAWS,” I add for emphasis.
Mr. Precious takes two more steps and turns and says: “They have just as much right…”
“JUST KILLL THHHHEEEE F-ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSS,” I scream at the top of my lungs in the very best of all my Screaming Banshee Voices, causing whole flocks of birds to whirl up and out of the forest.
Mr. Precious rolls his eyes and heads for the dock. I hover from above, watching for signs of betrayal from his Inner Biologist but am reassured by the noises emanating from below—volleys of hard knocks with the metal bucket to the sides of the dock and heavy stompings of manly, steel-toed feet.
“I guess there’s a lot of them then?” I call plaintively from the above.
No reply.
Grunts and low cursings filter up from below, the dock sashays wildly in the water and the violent slashings of the bucket are now accompanied by loud smacks with the paddle that Mr. Precious is now brandishing.
“A whole colony then?” I say as Mr. Precious gives the dock a final kick and heads back up the trail, red-faced and panting with exertion.
“Just the one,” he says grimly, heaving the bucket under the steps. “But the f-ing thing wouldn’t die.”
Drifting away
3 years ago
