Fortunately, I didn’t see the late-night text from our son until early the next morning. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if I had.
His two youngest girls spent the night with us. They live in the country, know all the plants and trees and animal tracks and can give wildlife a run for their money.
The 10-year-old, who slept over, is gentle as a dove, soft spoken and loves mice and chickens. The 8-year-old has bright blue eyes, a sweet smile and looks like an angel baby. Angel Baby knows how to play a room and work a crowd. Angel Baby could also pull a live animal out of her back pocket any day of the week.
The text from the night before said, “Hey, so one of the boys had a dead spider that he tied up to fishing line, but it is missing. Can you please ask the girls if they know where it is / if they have it? I told the kids explicitly NOT to take it to Grandma’s.”
I wonder if a lot of grandmas get these sort of text messages.
Our son would say, “Only the special ones.”
The reason the girls were told not to bring the dead spider is because they have a history. The 5-foot-long snakeskin episode still sends chills down my back. The snapping turtle that slept in one of the bedrooms wasn’t bad, although the squirrel tail in the freezer had me reciting the Greek alphabet backward for weeks.
I knew immediately that the spider in question must be a wolf spider. Wolf spiders are so huge you could toss one into a skillet, serve dinner for five and still have leftovers for the next three days.
When the girls wandered into the kitchen half awake, I immediately cornered my chief suspect, Angel Baby.
“Did you bring a big spider to Grandma’s?”
With a strand of hair cascading down her face, she smiled sweetly, batted those big baby blues, and said, “No.”
“Are you telling the truth?” Grandma sounded louder than usual.
“Yes,” she said.
I stood quietly, waiting for her to break. She whispered, “I didn’t bring it, but I know where it is.”
“Where?” I asked.
“At home.”
“Where at home?”
“On the mixer.”
I texted their dad. He said Wolf was not on the mixer.
Well then, Wolf was probably in whatever was last made in the mixer and is now inside all of the people who ate that. Yum. Protein.
The important thing was that Wolf wasn’t at Grandma’s house.
When the girls’ two brothers and older sister came the next day, the spider on the fishing line magically reappeared—dangling from the basketball goal spinning in the breeze, looking totally alive and terrifying. They also had fun perching the now visibly-dehydrated Wolf on a wicker chair where an aunt was sitting and attaching it to their clothing.
After the crew left, I realized I forgot to make sure they took Wolf with them. I immediately checked the mixer. All clear.
It was nearly two weeks ago that Wolf was here, but I still take a deep breath each time I open a cabinet or a drawer, or crawl into bed. Basketball is completely out of the question.
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Bird Bonus
Robins built a nest in the dogwood next to the house, which means we have taken bird-watching to dizzying heights–standing on the patio brick wall, a small step ladder and nearby patio chairs to catch a peek and a few snaps for the photo album I will be preparing.