The Widow and the Tissue: A Personal Account of Domestic Warfare

War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

It began, as these things often do, with a misplaced sense of confidence¹. Upon returning from dinner we spotted her – sleek, shiny, midnight black – her web spun across the front door like she was paying rent. A black widow, the real deal, the kind with the red hourglass and the Hollywood publicist. My first. Instantly recognisable as the famous – almost legendary – monstrosity. Bulbous and, at almost an inch and a half long, enormous.

Now, it was time to get down to business as the man of the house. My family looking at me expectantly. I must act. Dutifully I scurried off to the garage to find an implement of destruction, to murder this grotesque creature and protect the family. Being a man more comfortable behind the cobalt glow of the computer screen, rather than with the cobalt blue tarantula, the garage contained a paucity of suitable weapons. I returned with a mop handle and a prayer.

Now was my time to shine. The beast cornered, and me armed with my weapon of choice I was ready for battle to commence. Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' I loomed, aligning my mop handle over the daemon – my implement feeling increasingly small and inadequate – preparing to strike. Before I could even think about delivering my killing blow she had scarpered.

The day won, I poked at the hole it had crawled into with my mop handle, to let her know I meant business, and then proceeded to smash her web. Trying to sell this as my moment of triumph – the family saved, the spider vanquished – I turned to my family, expectant eyes and smiles. The disappointed looks told me otherwise. Faces saying that the spider getting away and me failing to even graze it was not considered a triumphant victory.

For the record, black widows are smart. Too smart in fact. They see shadows, remember vibrations, and, apparently, hold grudges. This, my research informed me, was my fatal mistake. The spider saw the shadow cast my my inexpertly wielded mop handle, was clever enough to know that a big looming shadow means danger and reacted appropriately².

After my first failed assassination attempt, she began hiding whenever I approached, the web trembling slightly – a twang like a violin string plucked in mockery. I started to feel like the villain who's only purpose is comic relief. Outwitted by a tiny, more competent assassin.

A new day dawned and the web had returned. Naturally, I went for my weapons of choice – vinegar and salt³. Because I am, allegedly, the kind of man who believes in non-toxic living and sustainable extermination. This is the problem with moving to California: you spend long enough composting, and you start thinking you can outwit neurotoxic arachnids with condiments.

The internet, that bottomless pit of reassurance and hysteria, informed me that black widow venom is neurotoxic, not necrotising – meaning your flesh won't slough off your bones, you'll simply wish for death as a relief. Phew. And fortunately, they are very conservative with their venom so there is no guarantee that she even uses it on you. I read this as I crouched on my porch, armed with a spray bottle full of 6% vinegar and misplaced optimism. This, unsurprisingly, led to another failed attempt.

For my next line of attack I considered fire. I looked up her heat tolerance – 46 degrees Celsius – and realised I’d have to scorch the siding just to be sure. I even entertained the fantasy of calling the HOA⁴ “Hullo, yes, there’s a terrorist spider living rent-free by my azaleas.” But where is the fun in that? And besides, an Englishman can't show cowardice in the face of adversity.

My other option was catching it in a jar, and releasing it humanely somewhere far away from the busy thoroughfare that it had found itself on. We, humans, are the interlopers after all. This was once the spiders uncontested home. After consulting with Chat GPT it advised me that I should not get within 10 feet of the spider, for fear of its bite. This put paid to my humanitarian hopes, and now some advanced war-fighting was needed.

I pondered the principles of warfare. Realising that supplies are critical to the strength of the opposition, I circled her web with salt. Then with diatomaceous earth – the goal, to starve her out, preventing any would be prey from approaching her lair. Casting a medieval protective spell around my front door. Later research revealed that she would have been able to survive for three months without food, even if my salt circle had been effective.

Back to the books then, yet more research into black widow behaviour revealed another useful weapon, light. I turned the porch light on to shine constantly through the night, borrowing from the CIA's playbook of psychological warfare⁵. Despite my genius, deep research, and advanced tactics, the next day I awoke to find that her web was larger than before. Stronger. I began to suspect she was expanding operations.

This spider did not intend to die by my hand. As I performed my dawn reconnaissance⁶ I spotted her. She looked at me – looked – as though to say, “Really? This is the best you have?” She flexed her horrifying little legs, each joint gleaming in the morning sun like a row of polished obsidian knives, before once again rushing for safety before I could find a chancla⁷, my current weapon of choice.

On the third evening of my campaign, in a near biblical twist, my mother-in-law came over to watch the baseball⁸. On her way in, she took one look at the enemy combatant, plucked a tissue from the ether – from whence it came I saw not – and ended our war in one fluid motion. The widow was gone, crushed, redeemed through violence. No fear, no hesitation, no moral posturing about organic living.

There was something humbling in watching a creature that had eluded me for days meet its end in seconds at the hands of a woman who considered it less event than errand. She didn't have much to say about it, it wasn't worth thinking about. Later, when pressed on the matter she confessed “spiders fear me because they know the end I bring to them” and refused to elaborate more.

Later that night, as I sat on the porch, I couldn’t help but admire the symmetry. Two apex predators – one a famous venom slinger, known and feared throughout the world, the other a seventy year old woman, armed with a tissue and a twinkle in her eye – briefly intersecting in the theatre of war.

My war, a campaign waged in theory; with toys, tactics, and an attempts to end things humanely. Hers, in practice. I had studied the spider. She had ended it.

---

¹ And a sense of latin machismo which did not come easily to my English heart.

² To quote Douglas Adams, just as discretion is the better part of valour, so was cowardice is the better part of discretion, and she valiantly hid herself, winning the day.

³ Vinegar and salt do not, in fact, kill black widows. They simply make your porch smell like a fish supper.

⁴ It is worth noting that black widows, much like HOAs, are territorial and vindictive.

⁵ I considered blasting AC/DC at maximum volume to complete my shock and awe tactics, but ultimately felt that this might be a shade anti-social.

⁶ Went to the local coffee shop to buy my morning flat white.

⁷ The traditional Mexican weapon used for destroying pests, insects, and the fighting spirit of your children.

⁸ Go Doyers!

© Alexander Cannon. All disclaimers disclaimable. Other venomous arachnids are available.