Last night, I was lying in bed comfortably reading Michael Kulikowski's excellent new book on the last years of the Roman Empire. I was concentrating very hard, because it's difficult for me to retain the decisions made at Nicaea in 325. I can read a paragraph about the Arian or some other "heresy" and five minutes later I can't remember who was on what side, or why it matters, except that those on the wrong side were liable to be burnt alive. What part of the brain is supposed to retain this stuff? In any case, I was lost in the book, quite content, comfortable -- supportive mattress, soft pillow and all that -- while, unbeknownst to me, a spider was making its way up the backside of the book cover. Why? Where did it come from? All I know is that it rounded the bend, so to speak, nonchalantly strolling into view at the very top of the verso page.
Immediately the most primitive part of my brain was activated, I elevated out of the bed like some sort of 1950s cartoon character, hovered for a second or two, and then found myself on the floor, frantically flapping the sheets and blankets, searching for the offending arachnid. Get him before he gets me!
If I understand what happened, the amygdala, the part of the brain that's in charge of fear, governed my actions. The amygdala has been producing fear and flight responses long before it came to be incorporated into homo sapiens.
After a few minutes we (I had called in auxiliaries) located the offending guy, and he's now sitting on my desk in a tightly sealed Bonne Maman jam jar.
I think it's a brown recluse. It sure looks like one. The color and shape are right out of the official catalog. According to the authorities, the only foolproof way to ascertain if it's a brown recluse is to count its eyes -- six rather than the usual spidery eight. But anyone who thinks that I'm going to get close enough to this spider to count its eyes has another think coming. Brown recluses are rare in our part of the world, but they're not unknown. My book came via interlibrary loan from Laramie, Wyoming; perhaps the spider came along for the ride.
Why be frightened of a brown recluse the size of a quarter, legs extended? "Brown recluse bites can inflict significant or even life-threatening damage. Bites may cause severe pain, ulcers, fever, chills, nausea, joint pain, or even seizures." Also, necrosis. Scars from necrotic flesh can last a lifetime. A friend of a friend lost a few months of his life and a hunk of gluteus maximus to a bite on the butt.
The spider is quite active now in its new home -- the jam jar. It's a beautifully engineered little creature and very industrious, unceasing in its determination to find the way out. I admire it, behind glass, and I probably share a lot of DNA with it -- though it's hard to feel a close kinship.
The "take-away": even though some parts of my brain have deteriorated, my amygdalae are in splendid working order.
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