Sunday, April 22, 2012

Death at the Box.

The Box is in a corner of our kitchen, farthest from food and nearest a window. That morning, the long legged spider, out for adventure, squeezed through a small space under a window screen and into our lives forever. Leg by leg, claw by claw, each of its eight legs felt their way down that mountainside that is the wall below the window. Each step it took down that mountain had to make the Box grow in size, and, one can only imagine, the spider had been holding its breath during the descent until, just an inch above the Box, it breathed in all the magnificence within and collapsed to the hard vinyl surface upon which the Box sat. By the time we awoke and journeyed upon the crime scene, there were eight legs straight up into the air and what only can be described as a surprised look on the spider's face. That image can never be erased...and the cat was, as cats are, totally unaffected.  


  1. 'Tis the day for A literary celebration of our eight-legged friends.

  2. Thank you for this, Michael. I will never think of cleaning the dreaded box again without remembering that the fumes are sufficient to kill a spider! Methinks I need to wear a mask (of course, if I did this chore in a more timely fashion, that might not be necessary!) before tackling it, the next time!