Those jumping spiders are the border patrol. They kill anything that gets in and anything that tries to get out. This makes me feel better about the stupid mosquitoes that somehow get inside and then wait until nighttime to lurk into my bedroom and bite my legs while I sleep (I keep a tube of cortisone by my bed because this happens so often), because I know that, after harvesting my blood, those mosquitoes are going to want to get outside to lay their spawn in the rain-filled seat of the camp chair on my front porch.
I know those mosquitoes are going to encounter the enchanting mirage of my front window and spend the rest of the night buzzing over the windowpanes, looking for a way out. But the search will be futile, and come morning, their little wings will be weak, their beady little head will be sore from smashing against the window all night like the ball of a paddle toy, and the unsuspecting mosquito will settle onto the window sill to rest, racking it's little brain (yes, mosquitoes have brains! Thank you, Google) trying to figure out why it can see outside but not be outside (didn't say it was a big brain).
While the mosquito works through this existential dilemma, my little guard spider, the panther of the Arachnida, lurks across the window sill, watching, waiting. He sees the mosquito's tight, ruby-colored abdomen, proof this perp is trying to transport stolen goods across the border. He makes a note in his little spider detective notebook, deducing that the goods were probably acquired during an assault.
|Here he is! He took some time off from his patrols for a little photo shoot.|
Then our little hero lets some venom drip from his little fangs while he calculates the trajectory necessary to apprehend the smuggler. He hums Bob Marley's "Bad Boys" to psych himself up. Then he launches himself across the expanse, his heart filled with adrenaline and the glory of justice, and he lands as any raptor would, sinking his whetted fangs into the mosquito's thorax. The mosquito experiences enough pain for justice to be appeased, and then the border patrol spider injects a lethal dose of rapid-acting venom, mercifully ending the mosquito's sad life of violence, theft, and bootlegging. Mosquitoes cannot be rehabilitated.
Does it bother me that my border patrol agent spider acts as judge, jury, and executioner? That he's a bit of a vigilante? That even a ladybug in need of directions would merit his wrath? Not in the slightest. I let him live on my windowsill, and in return he destroys anything with an exoskeleton that passes his way. Maybe that ladybug should get a GPS.