Soggy Spider—Part 2

In a few minutes my arachnid friend slowly began to move its pedipalpi. (Pedi-what? At the time I had no idea they were called this. I later consulted a bug book, to learn what they are and what their function is. Fact: pedipalpi are small, leg-like appendages to either side of the mouth of an arachnid, and are usually a fraction of the size of its eight legs. On a scorpion, however, the pedipalpi are longer than its legs, and a stinger is located the end of each pedipalpus. OK? On with the narrative.)

On the end of my spider's pedipalpi I saw tiny hands or pincer-like objects, and the spider began to use them to groom the adjacent leg. Was it wringing off the excess water? It first bent and then elevated a leg, as it continued to stroke downward on it.

Ever so slowly, it worked on the other legs and then began to move its whole body, as if gradually recovering the ability to do so again. I admired its body—a beautiful shade of gray. It was bulbously shaped and handsome. I watched its round bulk quiver and very subtly change shape and fill out, ever so slightly. Was it breathing? Was its stomach convulsing with all the water it had swallowed?

I sent my friend healing energy. I apologized for having the bucket of water there and for the near-drowning it had experienced. I reached out and touched its body, ever so gently, to soothe it. It recoiled a bit. OK, it didn't receive my touch as a caress, so I kept my hands to myself. I wanted to pick it up and bring it closer to my eyes, so I could see better what was going on, but resisted. I wondered why I held back. Was I respecting its space and deciding not to bring it up close to my nose and frighten it with my gigantic puss? Was I responding to archetypal fears that people have of arachnids? The possibility of getting bit did make me pause—even though I had no idea of how likely it was to strike out at me.

I sat there watching the spider from across a wide gulf of ignorance. I tried to open myself to its world and intuit what was going on and what was important to it. I once again apologized for the bucket of water—useful to me but a potential death trap for it. Not sure there was much more I could do—except to leave it alone, hopefully to recover—I left, still feeling regretful and a bit deficient in my abilities to understand and help. Awhile later I returned to the hot tub area and the spider was gone—hopefully carrying on its life in a much drier environment. Maybe I could place a screen over the bucket?