So I thought I would be let off the hook by Cleo after the Vacuum Box incident. Not quite. Cleo, being the huntress that she is, even being an indoor cat doesn't stop her scanning the horizon for anything that moves. She will sit on our balcony in the sunlight and *ack* *ack* (the battle cry) at any sparrows, robins, seagulls, or Boeing 757's going past. So last night getting out my clothes for tomorrow's trudge into work, I spy a large, obviously pregnant spider sitting on the wall.

"Ohh boy! Cleo's gonna love this!" thought I as I gingerly removed the spider from the wall with a Kleenex, making a little tent so it would be intact for Cleo to torture and eat. When she was an outdoor cat no spider perpetrating her porch or house was safe from the jaws of death. Of course, it's always good to pull off a few legs before eating.

So I called Cleo in the special voice I use when she is about to receive some blood-red Roast Beef that I give her as a treat. Into the bedroom she comes in a tail-up attitude, Velvet close at her heels. I put the Kleenex down and carefully open it by the wardrobe. Off scurries the spider, sensing no doubt that it was about to meet it's maker.

Cleo stared, looked at me as if to say "This isn't a mouse! I wanted a mouse!" and stalked off.

Velvet sort of pawed at it, and it became still. I looked over my shoulder and called some words of "disappointment" at Cleo's retreating bum.

I turned around just in time to see momma spider scurry off into my underwear and sock drawer. I searched and searched, but couldn't find her anywhere. She is, as I write this, probably nesting comfortably in some underwear, waiting for parturition of her probably 40 or 50 offspring.

Score: Cleo: 1

Stupid can-opener: zip

By now you think I would have learned my place in this household, and recognize who is really in charge. I'm working on it.

Copyright © Bill Mason
May 24, 2001