My Moby Dick

The spider freezes at the burst of light. I’m face-to-face with my personal Moby Dick—a monstrous black spider haunting the turtle barn.

It’s about to run, screaming like a little girl.

If I find spiders in the house, I capture and release them in the desert. I prefer to leave spiders to their spider business if they leave me alone.

Moby Dick threatens my turtles, so it must go. It tucks itself into the back of the turtle barn whenever I lift the lid, evading feeble attempts to knock it down with a broom, the broom handle, and even the pooper scooper. It taunts me.

Chemical warfare is useless—bug spray would harm the turtles. I must marshal my forces, but I am out of ammunition.

I stand in the storage room, examining my arsenal. The darn spider outwits me, not that that is hard to do. I am like Winnie the Pooh—a bear of very little brain.

And then I see it. The shop vac! I wring my hands like a cartoon villain. I’ll get you, my pretty!

I drag my nuclear option to the yard. It takes a few minutes to find an outlet that works. I switch it on, and the air blows out, spraying gravel and dirt in my face. Fastening the hose to the other side, it sucks air like a losing racehorse.

I crouch over the lid, grinning like the fool I am. Jerking it open, I thrust the vacuum hose toward Moby Dick. I got him! The spider whooshes up the hose.

Dancing with the energy of the conqueror, I drag the shop vac to the outside trash. Releasing the filter, I tug at the rubber band holding the bag in place as contents spill around me. I see gravel and dirt and . . .

Moby Dick stands defiant in the midst.

I run, screaming like a little girl.