My Spider Housemates

I’ve never been particularly afraid of spiders. Growing up in the country with my single mother, a robust country girl herself, rather than trying to rid our old weatherboard house of spiders (mostly daddy long legs), we’d live with them as housemates. I wasn’t quite as comfortable with this arrangement as my mum, especially if the spider was a rather intimidating looking huntsman, but we compromised and she’d capture any big ones in my room and let them free outside while I dealt with any skittish feelings around the friends hiding high up in the corners of our kitchen. Mum reasoned that our spider friends kept the flies and mosquitoes at bay, and recently, after a horror-movie-worthy experience of maggots invading my house overnight, I am now wholeheartedly pro spider.

As a 38-year-old who’s been living with a man for the last decade and a half, I’ve barely had anything to do with spiders since my early 20s. I’ve handed over 100% of spider duties to him, declaring them ‘boy jobs’ and letting all the feminism leave my body anytime anything scuttles by. But recently, after purchasing a house in the country and experiencing what can only be described as Maggot Armageddon, I have been leaving the spiders alone to do their business.

One sleepy morning in the era that shall henceforth be known as BMT (Before Maggot Time), I was dozing next to my five-year-old daughter while my husband bustled about getting ready for work. I was properly awoken by his gentle hand on my shoulder and the words, “I’m so sorry, I have to go to work, but there are maggots all over the floor.”

I bolted upright to see the kitchen and lounge area strewn with what looked like rice bubbles. My husband said he thought the cat had managed to spill cereal all over the floor, until he saw the rice bubbles moving. I gagged, my husband gagged, my daughter screamed, and then my husband left to catch his train, promising to transfer me oodles of money ($20) as compensation and to get breakfast out of the house. I put on my big girl pants, grabbed our old and fairly ineffective vacuum and slowly began vacuuming up the writhing grubs.

I wish I could tell you we learned some valuable lesson about cleanliness or putting away food scraps, but we never found the source of the maggots—only that overnight, they were suddenly ready for whatever it is maggots do, spilling out of their mysterious hiding place like tiny, wriggling hunters, thirsty for blood and up to no good (I’ve since learnt they were actually searching for soil to bury themselves until they became flies, but still: gross and terrifying).

Since that momentous and life-changing moment, I’ve found some sadistic joy anytime I see a fly caught in a web. Especially when I see the swift movement of my arachnid friend, twirling up its prey like a kebab. The skill! The finesse! The way they keep to themselves, making no fuss until it’s their time to shine. Very much unlike their aerial peer, whose buzzing seems, honestly, a bit ostentatious (is it necessary to make that much noise?). I leave up their webs even when it’s clear they’ve gone to greener pastures, as a little tribute to my silk-weaving friends and even in their absence, their webs have proven helpful in keeping the flies at bay.

So this is a call to action, to welcome the (non-deadly) spiders with open arms, knowing they’re excellent housemates: hardworking, self-sufficient, and always pulling their weight. Even as I write this, a spider at my window is gracefully navigating her web, fixing broken bits and doing general maintenance. I salute her, and she salutes back and we both get on with our business, knowing we are safe in each other’s company.

If you visit my house, be aware: there will be webs, there will be spiders, and at no point can you mention getting rid of them (it might hurt their feelings and I simply won’t have it). In regards to the flies however, I have plenty of swatters to go around.