Tag: #wolfspider

I didn’t set out to live with spiders.
It just sort of… happened.

It started with one: a large, quiet wolf spider who took up residence in the back corner of my bathtub. She didn’t build a web. She didn’t scurry at my presence. She just stayed, watching from the metal edge like she had nowhere else to be and didn’t see any reason to leave.

At first, I startled. That’s normal. We’re not meant to casually coexist with eight-legged creatures in our places of ritual and cleanliness. But the more I looked at her, the less threatening she seemed. There was no aggression. No mess. Just presence. So I left her alone. I named her Horatio.

Before long, we had a routine. She’d be in the tub when I came in. I’d scoop her gently onto a Q-tip and tuck her out of the water’s path before I turned the faucet on. I can’t explain why I felt responsible for her, but I did. Maybe it was the way she held still, as if she trusted me. Or maybe it was just easier than squishing something that didn’t mean any harm.

One day, I tried to be extra kind. She was sitting low in the tub and I worried the water might overwhelm her, so I nudged her up with the Q-tip and tucked her behind the shower curtain, safe and dry.

When I finished my shower, she was gone.

Not “moved to a new corner” gone. Not “scuttled up the tile” gone.
Just… gone.

I stood there dripping, staring into the folds of the curtain, convinced I’d made a fatal mistake. That I’d drowned a spider I hadn’t realized I’d come to care about. For two days, I peeked around corners. Nothing.

And then she was back.

Just sitting calmly in her usual spot, like she’d never left. I laughed when I saw her. I couldn’t help it. She wasn’t just a spider anymore. She was a survivor. And this old, drafty house with its creaky walls and creepy-crawly critter snack bar was hers now too.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

That night, a second spider descended from the ceiling on a silk line, graceful, confident, and clearly not expecting company. She came down halfway, paused, and spotted Horatio already in the tub.

The standoff lasted maybe five seconds. Then the newcomer panicked, turned tail, and climbed back up like a cartoon burglar caught mid-break-in.

I named her Horbtio. My brother suggested it, and I couldn’t stop laughing. If Horatio was the quiet matriarch, Horbtio was the anxious cousin who showed up uninvited, realized she’d walked into family drama, and disappeared into the curtain rod.

And for a while, that was it.
Horatio below. Horbtio above. A strange, silent truce.

I kept my distance. I gave them space. I even wrote about them, this weird little bathtub saga unfolding just beyond the reach of the faucet.

But then, everything changed.

This morning, I stepped into the bathroom and stopped cold.
There was a third.

This one was different. Smaller. Lankier. And clearly male. I could tell from the shape of his pedipalps, those front-facing appendages just under the eyes. They were swollen, bobbing slightly as he moved.

I’d never had a problem with Horatio. I even grew fond of Horbtio. But this new arrival? He came with an energy shift. A potential for eggs. A hint of infestation. And with him, the quiet dignity of House Horatio shattered.

I named him Horctio, because by this point, naming them felt like a strange kind of honor.
But I knew he couldn’t stay.
None of them could.

It’s one thing to host a spider.
It’s another thing to host three.

So today, I served the eviction notice.

I told them they had until I got off work to pack up and vacate the porcelain premises. I said it with kindness, but I meant it. Because while I may be generous, I’m not trying to run a spider commune. I believe in boundaries. Even when they have eight legs and a surprisingly long tenancy.

By the time you read this, they may be gone. Or I may have had to rehome them gently by cup and envelope to the backyard shadows where they belong.

And even though I know this is the right call,
I’ll miss them.
A little.

Because I never thought a trio of leggy freeloaders would teach me something about patience, coexistence, and the strange tenderness that can bloom between humans and the small wild things that live in their corners.

But here we are.
Goodbye, House Horatio. You were weird. You were quiet.
And you were strangely hard to let go.

xoxo
-S