A succession of banana spiders has spun webs on one corner of Doright Manor for the past few months. We’ve watched as the web grew and evolved as each patient female passed on her creation to the next in line.
I believe we were on the fourth in the lineage, and the once meager web now stretched from one side of the driveway to the other. Truly, it was a work of art. Until it wasn’t. Until I somehow forgot about the freaking web and walked right through it this morning.
Imagine me, engrossed in reading a bit of mail I’d retrieved from the mailbox, blithely strolling from the porch to the garage when the unmistakable sticky filaments plastered against my face, my hair, my glasses, my arms. I screamed and launched into the Oh Hell No dance hoping to shake loose the mama arachnid who might be about to deliver her painful bite at any moment. I think I was successful, but two hours post-encounter I still imagine she’s lurking nearby.
Worst of all I feel horrible about destroying her web. Hoping she won’t seek revenge.