In Defense of Household Critters
By Tiana Doht

I have the perfect roommate.  She's quiet, keeps mostly to herself.  She only takes up one corner of the bedroom, which works out great for me because I'm a slob.  My floor is permanently blanketed with clothes and papers, except on the rare occasions when Grandma comes to visit.  My roommate doesn't mind messiness, though, and I don't interfere with her lifestyle either - that is, as long as her leftover insect shells are kept to a minimum.  Besides, I kind of enjoy her presence in the room.  I think the silken weave of her web adds something to the décor.

Grandma hates spiderwebs.  "Cobwebs," she calls them.  I think the word denies their beauty, devalues the precision and artistry laced into the wispy designs. "Cobwebs" makes them sound like weeds, something that doesn't belong and should be disposed of.  Don't get me wrong - it's not that I harbor a particular affinity for spiders.  I just think we can afford to accommodate a few outdoor creatures who seek to share in our comfort.   After all, the space we've claimed as our own is their natural domain.  If it weren't for the indulgent sprawl of our homes, this area would be the communal roaming ground of countless critters - spiders, ants, and beetles alike.  What makes us think that we, as humans, deserve the privilege of exclusivity?  That we can write and do mathematics and cry doesn't relieve our obligation to make a few concessions to nature.  What, save selfishness, prevents us from sharing our space, loaning out a few square inches of ceiling and wall space to some homeless arachnids?  Certainly these nooks would never be so productively put to use otherwise.

Unfortunately, the productive usage of space doesn't really concern Grandma. She disdains spiderwebs as sanitary and aesthetic evils.  According to her, a house decorated with spiderwebs is neglected, shameful, unkempt.  It shows a lack of respect for your own home and for people who visit, people who do not expect to share hospitality with eight-legged creatures.  Personally, I don't see why the company of a spider or two should warrant such a fuss.  It's not as if they come down wanting a sip of tea from your cup.  They feed and entertain themselves, and prefer to have as little to do with us as we want to do with them.  They are ideal guests.

Of course, there are those instances when confrontation is unavoidable.  Some weekday mornings, for example, I stumble into the shower, sleepiness and near-sightedness blurring the shower basin into a white vagueness.  As I turn on the faucet and step under the steaming spray, I notice a dark, fuzzy spot like a lint-ball being swept toward the drain.  I crouch down quickly to see what it is.  When I get close enough, I can make out a daddy-long-legs spider, who probably fell into the basin during the night and was unable to climb back up the smooth, rounded corners.  I dip my fingers into the stream and scoop him up. He is wet, so his delicate long legs are immobilized and stick to my hand.  I struggle to rip off a piece of toilet paper from the roll adjacent to the shower - a difficult undertaking because the flimsy sheets melt into translucent mush under my dripping fingers.  I finally manage to get one intact, and transfer the helpless spider onto the soft square, setting it on the toilet seat.  By the time I get out of the shower, he has recovered and disappeared from sight.  One might wonder why I bother with this effort rather than abandon the spider to fate in the depths of my shower drain.  Why bother to save the creature's life at all, when many people would go out of their way to exterminate him?

These critters mean no offense when they crawl through a dark crevice, one just like any other, and end up on the other side of someone's carefully insulated walls.  People act as though wood and plaster will curb insect instincts to roam where they please, over our immaculate cupboards and sparkling countertops. Of course, we are smart enough to know that bugs don't distinguish between a hollow in a fallen oak and a cozy niche in the bedroom.  So why do we punish them for violating a boundary they cannot recognize?

Some people, like my grandma, would look at this barely-there creature, with legs thin as whispers and a body only slightly bigger, and feel revulsion, or annoyance, or contempt.  I see a creature who has innocently slipped into a shower prison, not one who has deliberately sought to disturb my morning ritual. Whether I let the spider live or die probably has no significant impact on the world.  Still, there is something about these nondescript houseguests that invites my sympathy and makes me contemplate their little lives more closely.  I watch spiders wait patiently for flies to venture just far enough into the sticky mesh of their webs.  I watch ants scurry across my bathroom counter, waving their little antennae at each other in brief encounters.  I watch my household critters go about their business utterly oblivious to the great universe around them, to the fate that awaits them in the bottom of shower basins.  I watch as they disappear, leaving behind abandoned webs as the only evidence of their ephemeral lives.  I think ahead to the time when my own home will be only an empty shell of my existence.  When some omnipotent current tries to sweep my life down the drain, will someone take the trouble to reach in and save me?  I would hope so.  In the meantime, however, I will continue to treat my insect visitors as I would any other guest.  I, for one, like to have friends in all corners.

Originally from Windsor , California , Tiana Doht is currently a sophomore at Pitzer College .  She is majoring in International and Intercultural Studies and hopes to pursue a future career in journalism.