Dead Charlotte
My beloved Chilean rose tarantula has died. I feel as though part of my identity has gone with her. I have had her since not long after I left home. I have had her for longer than I was with Gothly. I thought I would have her for longer still--I kept her so carefully. She was fourteen years old.
The other day, I was sitting in my room feeding a blob of jam to Harold and Maud, two bluebottles who had been wintering with me--when I heard an aerosol spray being used on the landing. It's not like housemate Erik (not his real name) to spray air freshener around, yet he was really going to town. And then I realised. I leapt out of my room and caught him emptying a canister of insecticide onto some flies that were reeling about on the floor.
"Please don't use fly spray outside my room!" I cried. "I have pet insects!"
He looked abashed, and stopped immediately. A fly buzzed into my room and crawled into the spider tank. When I took the lid off to shoo it out, it had disappeared. Had Charlotte eaten it?
She had been looking very weak lately anyway, and eating less than usual. There had been a cold snap: thick frost had coated the fields in a layer of white all week. I had been very worried for my animals, wrapping their tanks in newspaper and shining a lamp into Charlotte's tank. Having no fireglow bulbs, I had to use an ordinary one; had it dessicated her as she sunbathed?
I spotted her yesterday, sitting in a very peculiar position, so I opened her lid and gave her a nudge. She did not move. I nudged her harder, and she didn't move and I realised she was dead and I collected her up into my hand and looked at her and my eyes got wet and I just... looked at her. I heard Erik moving on the landing, and suddenly I was furious. Still holding Charlotte, I pulled open my door ready to thrust her body under his nose and say, "look what you did!"
"Erik," I said, and he turned, and I tried to speak and instead I started crying. "My spider has died," I whispered.
He came over, all concerned, placed his hand on my arm and stroked one of Charlotte's legs. "How did she die?" he asked.
I couldn't tell him about the fly. I said I didn't know--and really, that is the truth. I don't know. And through my tears, I told him how much she meant to me, and how foolish I felt because she was only an arthropod. But Erik, whose puppy-dog died in September, understood.
As her muscles contracted in death, I felt her feet move against my hand and I thought for a moment that she was still alive. Oh, Charlotte. How can I possibly get rid of you? It's so very cold outside.
A song for you.
The other day, I was sitting in my room feeding a blob of jam to Harold and Maud, two bluebottles who had been wintering with me--when I heard an aerosol spray being used on the landing. It's not like housemate Erik (not his real name) to spray air freshener around, yet he was really going to town. And then I realised. I leapt out of my room and caught him emptying a canister of insecticide onto some flies that were reeling about on the floor.
"Please don't use fly spray outside my room!" I cried. "I have pet insects!"
He looked abashed, and stopped immediately. A fly buzzed into my room and crawled into the spider tank. When I took the lid off to shoo it out, it had disappeared. Had Charlotte eaten it?
She had been looking very weak lately anyway, and eating less than usual. There had been a cold snap: thick frost had coated the fields in a layer of white all week. I had been very worried for my animals, wrapping their tanks in newspaper and shining a lamp into Charlotte's tank. Having no fireglow bulbs, I had to use an ordinary one; had it dessicated her as she sunbathed?
I spotted her yesterday, sitting in a very peculiar position, so I opened her lid and gave her a nudge. She did not move. I nudged her harder, and she didn't move and I realised she was dead and I collected her up into my hand and looked at her and my eyes got wet and I just... looked at her. I heard Erik moving on the landing, and suddenly I was furious. Still holding Charlotte, I pulled open my door ready to thrust her body under his nose and say, "look what you did!"
"Erik," I said, and he turned, and I tried to speak and instead I started crying. "My spider has died," I whispered.
He came over, all concerned, placed his hand on my arm and stroked one of Charlotte's legs. "How did she die?" he asked.
I couldn't tell him about the fly. I said I didn't know--and really, that is the truth. I don't know. And through my tears, I told him how much she meant to me, and how foolish I felt because she was only an arthropod. But Erik, whose puppy-dog died in September, understood.
As her muscles contracted in death, I felt her feet move against my hand and I thought for a moment that she was still alive. Oh, Charlotte. How can I possibly get rid of you? It's so very cold outside.
A song for you.