He did and he landed. Then he didn’t move.
I thought he was doing that “I’m going to stand still and you can’t see me. I’m black but I totes blend on this beige surface” thing that they all do when they’re discovered. So I went about my business.
I washed strawberries, blueberries, cucumber, and romaine lettuce — making my lunch for the next day. I glanced back at the counter occasionally, searching for movement. There was none. I started to feel bad — could it be a two- to three-inch drop was too much for Mr. Spider? He was… IS… smaller than a pencil eraser. I broke his little spider neck! I thought I was being so careful, too.
After putting my salad parts in various air-tight containers (air is salad’s enemy, you know), I walked over the counter where Mr. Spider lay still. I decided to blow a bit of air his way, just to see what would happen…. nothing. I moved a little closer and did it again… nothing. One more time, gently — going for spring zephyr not hurricane force, tiny spider size…. HALLELUJAH! He moved!
That’s right — I brought Mr. Spider back to life with mouth to spider resuscitation. He lives!
It’s a good thing that worked. I don’t have a miniature defibrillator.
I wonder if he had a spidery near-death experience… “I saw big lights and a big head… it said something, but I didn’t speak its language… then this big air came and whoosh! I woke up again. Amazing!”
You might think this weird — worrying about saving a spider. But the Eight Leggers and I have an agreement: they stay away from me, I stay away from them, and we coexist together. Like their webs, it’s a beautiful thing (unless I walk out the front door, get caught up in one, and do interpretive dance until I get it all off me…).