Spider Hunt – Goodbye Trevor

Spider Hunt – Goodbye Trevor

I can’t honestly say I have an issue with spiders; in fact I’m quite welcoming when they choose to set up shop in my home, as they eat up all of the bastarding fruit flies that surface from the compost in my house plants each and every year and honestly, I rather enjoy the company.
Unlike cats, spiders tend to keep to themselves. They don’t answer back, they don’t shit on the carpets (that I’m aware of) and aside from when they occasionally drop down on their webs a little too close to my face, causing me to spasm and inadvertently smack myself in the face, I find them fairly inoffensive.

For around a month or so I’ve been aware of a rather large house spider living in my bathroom. I nicknamed him Trevor (Trev for short) and I’ve enjoyed our little chats on a morning while I’ve been hastily readying myself for the workplace.
Living alone tends to make you slightly peculiar and I suppose talking to a spider and indeed naming him Trevor makes me more than a little odd (read: completely bloody mental), but I’m cool with that.
This morning however, was a horrendous reminder as to why it is unwise to befriend the local arachnids, or any insect inhabiting my home for that matter.

Midway through my shower I became aware of a commotion on the other side of the bathroom. I could hear the sound of scrabbling feet, the tell-tale thump of a body slam “cat-style” and then suddenly, without warning, Bailey slammed into the side of the bath headfirst, like a drunk pirate.
At this point I had shampoo in my eyes, so I blindly assumed that the cats were once again trying to cave in one another’s skulls while battling for supremacy.

With three cats, this is a never ending saga that seems to rarely result in a victor but one that does result in my house being constantly awash with huge sodding clumps of fur.
Someone once bought me a book called “Crafting with Cat Fur” and I thought they’d completely lost their minds but to be honest, I can see how you might consider that a pertinent gift after visiting my home. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or grateful.

Barely acknowledging the battle taking place in my bathroom I calmly finished my shower and stepped out into what can only be described as the fucking opening scene from Saving Private Ryan. The horror will live with me for many years to come – legs scattered everywhere, an actual spidery bloodbath.
Bear in mind that Trevor wasn’t a little fellow; he was a big, juicy house spider not dissimilar in size to a grape or a small, stubbly prune.

In the midst of this murderous ocean of shit crouched Bailey, still crunching his way happily through what remained of Trevor. The remnants of a leg poked from his mouth, as he tilted his head from left to right, attempting to crunch it down like a sodding french fry.

“FOR THE LOVE OF BASTARDING CHRIST!” I wailed, dancing my way through the carnage to a safe distance, where I wasn’t likely to end up with a portion of Trevor’s face plastered to the sole of my foot. Bailey paused only for a moment and then gleefully resumed his feast, unaware of the depths of my anguish.

Unable to face the horror I fled from the scene, gagging and mentally preparing for poor Trevor’s unceremonious funeral.
Unfortunately, Trevor’s funeral is unlikely to extend beyond a handful of toilet roll and some flash wipes – one can’t be sentimental when living with heartless killers such as the Trio.

Farewell Trevor, I’ll see you in my dreams. Or possibly my nightmares.

Bailey the Killer

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