Tarantula

This morning I found a tarantula on the floor of the field house. I looked at it for a while, somehow believing it was fake. Arturo was at the sink washing dishes, and I just stared at it.

"Arturo?" I said. Nothing.

"Arturo?" I said. Nothing.

"Arturo, there is a tarantula in the house," I said. Arturo turned around. I pointed downwards, at the entrance to the kitchen.

My first instinct in this case was to do nothing and let Arturo handle it. Having spent upwards of 6 years living at the field house almost continuously, I was sure that tarantulas had ceased to sap him with fear and indecision.

"What do I do?" said Arturo.

"I don't know," I said.

He thought for a moment and then disappeared, leaving me barracaded in the room, the tarantula in my path.

"Arturo!" I said. "Where are you?"

He came back with a broom and tentatively poked the tarantula with it. In my direction. I took a few steps back, sure that its first move would be to bound up my leg with incredible speed and bite me directly in the crotch. But it just lifted its rear legs and let Arturo push him towards the door. Eventually Arturo lifted the broom, and the tarantula's rear legs stuck to the fibers of the broom, leaving it suspended in mid air like a trapeze artist. He walked with it like that to the edge of a fence, and brushed the tarantula aganst a hanging vine until it reluctantly held on.

Then we took these pictures, which came out not-so-well. I would have taken one of it in the house, but it was between me and my camera.