Tarantula Crossing

It is the time of year the male tarantulas are out of their holes and hunting for a mate.  These slow-moving hairy hunks are often found walking down the middle of the road.  I understand many people think they are ugly, but I see them as vunerable, handsome creatures.  I drive to and from work these days with my eyes peeled and rapidly scanning the roads, hoping my speed isn't faster than my tarantula-spotting reaction time. 
I recently read that female tarantulas can live up to twenty years.. which begs the question.. why not males?  I had to know.

Easy enough to google..   "If males are not killed during their search for a mate, they die soon after maturing.  Most males do not live through moult as they tend to get their emboli, mature male sexual organs on pedipalps, stuck in the moult." 

Now do you feel sorry for them?  So while the males are out risking life and limbs -- four pair of legs and two additional pairs of appendages to be exact.. the females are safely in their holes in the ground waiting.  Although either sex can be stung by a Tarantula Hawk; who then lay an egg in the paralyzed spider.  And, you guessed it, the tarantula's body becomes the fledgling insect's nest and food.  Now I am depressed.

But, even if I hadn't known the slim chance these large arachnids have of  living a long happy life, I'd still stop traffic to avoid a preventable demise.  The curious drivers, having been flagged down by me, always ask "Everything OK?".  I then point to the brown spot in the road, who is unaware he had been  about to become a permanent part of the asphalt.  Luckily, the drivers have always obliged, while smiling and sometimes looking at me like I may have come from another planet.  

It went by fast, the first month after Dad and the horses arrived.  I came home from work one evening and found a note on the kitchen counter.  My Dad had gone back to Arkansas.  When he left Arkansas the only possessions he brought with him were some clothes, his German shepherd and two horses. According to the note, my Dad's neighbor had called.  He told my Dad that he saw a car parked in front of  his house and he thought someone may have been stealing his belongings.   

 

Now I was the lone owner of two horses.  My Dad had been feeding and taking care of the them and I had not paid much attention. 

 

So the next day I went to the local feed store for advice.  I knew a brood mare and growing colt must need more than alfalfa. As I was purchasing a bag of pellets, I wondered if I was being gullible.  The store owner told me she had just what my horses needed. I even purchased a cheap scale to weigh the alfalfa I fed. I bought books on feeding horses and talked to everyone I could about feeding and horses in general.  I learned that every horse owner had different ideas. 

 

It was still summer and not suprisingly, very hot.  Lady always stood close to the house.  It was shady there.  It seemed she was always sleeping.  I didn't realize horses just stood around sleeping all day.  At that time, due to my very limited experience with horses, I didn't know that she was actually depressed. 

 

Of my few childhood encounters with horses, my first trail ride stands out in my mind, and not for good reasons.  It was during a family vacation at Bryce Canyon.  I was eight years old and on a big horse, who the trail guide referred to as "Wild Bill".   Going down that narrow trail in the canyon was bad enough, but I was riding "Wild Bill", which the trail guide kept reminding me.  I would have preferred trusting my own two feet.

Over the years, there were a few more trail rides at a local stable. And despite "Wild Bill", I grew up dreaming of owning a steed of my own.

 

My real love for horses came when I was thirteen years old.  I met a girl my age who owned a beautiful paint mare named Charlotte.  I had never known anyone who owned a horse. It was a short, blissful time in my life.  We would ride Charlotte every chance we got that summer.  We'd be gone all day, going out along the sandy washes in the Califiornia desert.  Riding double, riding single, walking...  Charlotte didn't seem like another species, she was like one of us girls.  I loved that horse and was thrilled when her owner told me  because I loved her so much, she considered Charlotte to be half mine.  But, my bliss ended when her family suddenly moved away to Oregon. I never heard from her again.

 

Wanting to be the best horse owner, I continued reading and asking other owners questions every chance I got.   Each night after work I would feed and spend time trying to build trust with Lady and rubbing and touching Pistol all over to get him use to human contact.  Which wasn't a problem.  Pistol loved to be scratched and rubbed.  

 

One evening while driving home I noticed the waterman was behind me. He was bringing me, what we who live in the desert consider more precious than gold, a load of water. Living where I do, you either had a well, or stored your water in an underground storage tank.  I had the latter of the two.

 

I had parked and just closed the gate behind me when the waterman pulled up.  I thought I would feed the horses first so they'd be occupied while I opened the gate. 

 

The horses were  always waiting  for me at the gate.  And on this day, they were happy to see me as usual.  Pistol always ran around excitedly, running past me, kicking out his legs. I was pretty sure he was still fine-tuning his aim.  Getting up the driveway was usually a challenge for me.  Many days I'd run from yucca to yucca, not wanting to play "chicken" with Pistol and not trusting his legs, which seemed to be constantly flying in my direction.  He'd kick out carelessly and come very close to making contact.  I know I was suppose to stand my ground and not show fear.  I did not want to test that theory. 

 

With the waterman sitting in his truck waiting and watching the show, I began walking up the driveway. Suddenly, I saw something  above my head.  It was Pistol's hoofs!  Before I could turn around, I felt his front  hoofs scrap against my back. I realized he had been on his hind legs. I flipped around  and saw him right behind me.  By then all four hoofs were on the ground.  I ran to take cover next to the closest yucca.  The waterman yelled out the window,  " grab a stick!" which I did to try to keep Pistol from getting too close to me again.  I eventually made it up the driveway, running from yucca to yucca.  I looked back and saw the waterman laughing and talking on his cell phone. He later told me he had been talking to his wife.  He had been sharing with her, what he who was sitting safely in his truck, thought was a very humorous escapade.