An Arachnid's Embarrassment
Insects are surprisingly emotional creatures despite their minuscule brain sizes. They can feel pleasure and pain in their own ways. Bees experience a positive emotion-like state when they find an unexpected source of sugar. Flies are stricken with fear when threatened and take time to calm down when safe again. Other insects exhibit different emotions according to their makeups and situations.
Spiders are not insects. They are arachnids: unfeeling, eight-legged creepy crawlies. They lack the necessary neurological structures to actually be happy, sad, or scared.
Or so I thought.
I was walking into my room, eating a handful of raisins as one does when combating a sugar craving, when I noticed my floor move. Floors are typically stable and unmoving, so I crouched down to get a better look. I searched the hardwood until I saw a brown something that was a little less brown than its surroundings. Lo and behold: a spider.
Normally, I wouldn’t pay a spider any mind. I don’t like spiders—they move too fast, have too many legs, too many eyes, too many methods of giving me a heart attack. But this spider was oddly lethargic. It moved like it was wading through molasses.
Interest piqued, I ate another raisin, crouched down, and watched.
The spider continued its slow crawl forward until something caught its eight eyes. To the right of the spider was a black thing. The black thing looked like an insect from my viewpoint. Perhaps a very small carpet beetle, or a fledgling ant. The spider agreed with my musings.
It turned its body, ever so slowly, to face its prey. Its back legs tensed. Its front legs rose. I admired the spider’s poise under pressure. Half a second passed where I held my breath, another raisin halfway to my mouth.
The spider POUNCED. It grabbed the black thing, front legs and pedipalps working furiously to bring the unfortunate insect underneath its tiny cephalothorax. I continued to observe, feeling equal parts fascination and disgust. A small part of me pitied the black thing, and an even smaller part of me lauded the spider’s accomplishment.
I tensed my own legs to stand, figuring the show to be over, but the spider’s enthusiasm unexpectedly began to wane. Confused, I continued to squat, awaiting the final act.
The spider’s pedipalps slowed. Its front legs relaxed. Its thorax ceased its excited twitching. It stilled, perhaps holding its own breath, storing its oxygen in its book lungs. Another half second passed, and another raisin was consumed.
The spider released the black thing, taking two steps back with four legs. I peered closer.
The black thing was, in fact, part of a cumin seed.
The spider stared. I stared. My raisins stared. The cumin seed laughed.
I watched, transfixed, as the spider blushed a nonexistent blush and coughed a nonexistent cough. It sheepishly turned to the left, as if purposely ignoring my presence.
The spider began a slow walk of shame towards my carpet, legs creeping forward at a snail’s pace. I stood and strode off in the opposite direction, leaving it to recover its pride.
When I returned, five minutes later, the spider was nowhere to be found.
I ate my last raisin somberly, in solidarity.
✦✦ 🍂 ☕ 🍂 ✦✦