Ah, the strange and intricate dance of nature. Majestic as a mighty forest, remorseless as an eagle's talon, warm and steaming as a road-kill skunk. We are all bit players in the wide sweep of nature's unending pageant and few get the chance to step back and appreciate the subtle, pervasive inter-relations of all that is breathing, living and, for the most part, squishy.
But I did.
I had the chance to glimpse, for a moment, the blind, balanced justice of tooth, claw and stinger right there in my own back yard. It helps living in Texas, I guess, where even the field mice carry handguns and the array of flying chitin would leave you breathless with awe, wonder, and anaphylactic shock.
We've had a sprinkler system installed in our lawns and flowerbeds. It's very clever, and turns itself on and off at timed intervals and even makes sure it hasn't rained recently before it starts spraying fluids all over your hairy pear tree. (I kid you not. Well don't look at me, it was there when we moved in and let me tell you, it's hard to talk about a 'hairy pear' without picturing the latter word spelled differently.)
Anyway, I was off to work a week or so ago and noticed something laying across the small crater that surrounds one of the pop-up sprinkler heads. When I got closer I realized it was in fact a dinner-plate sized spider web, with strands thick enough to trip a charging rhino. Lurking at the bottom, in a nest the size of a child's fist, was clearly the largest spider I've ever seen. I could only see two legs sticking out and what appeared to be beady eyes glinting back at me from the dark. With great care and as much gentleness as I could muster, I scooped out the web with a stick, but the out-sized spider retreated deeper into the ground by the sprinkler, and lacking anything approaching a hunting rifle, I distained to follow him in. By that evening, our visitor had vanished.
After doing some reading, it looks like I was playing host to a young and itinerant male Tarantula, who apparently wander around this area looking for, well, what young males of any species spend their time looking for. Thankfully, they prefer large trees to lurk in and under, so he was probably just hiding away from birds, large rodents and heavily armed field mice.
The following weekend I was outside in the yard when I noticed what I first took to be a hummingbird hovering by my door. When I looked closed, I discovered that it was, in fact, the largest flying insect I've ever seen. I mean, even including zoo visits, TV shows and yes, probably the movie of Starship Troopers. It was a gargantuan wasp, but without the usual bright yellow stripes. This thing was, literally, the size of a small bird and was slowly orbiting the area around the back door and window, clearly looking for a way in or, as I feared, a place to nest and grow a brood of giant flying nightmares. I seized a handy trowel and approached the strangely silent Cretaceous-sized throwback of an insect with the intent of killing it, or at least wounding it sufficiently that it might retreat. It just slowly and deftly moved away from me whenever I got close. (Now I'll be honest here. I wasn't exactly charging in like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. To describe my attack as 'timid' would be overly generous.) Eventually, after a couple of minutes of halfhearted prodding, and graceful dodging, the brute flew overhead and vanished into next-door's garden. Mission accomplished. I didn't hear any screams of horror from beyond the fence, so I figure they like giant winged monsters. Or maybe they just weren't outside. Either way, I was cool.
Now, here's the rub. After questioning co-workers and doing a little research, I discovered that the wasp was in fact what is known locally as a 'mud-dobber.' They are a member of the wasp family and also mercifully gentle even around humans with trowels, apparently. The bizarre twist in this tail of garden invasion is this; the preferred prey of mud dobbers? Spiders. Yes, it was as though by some strange act of collective consciousness, the fauna of Texas was presenting itself to me in sequence just to demonstrate the simple elegance of the natural balance.
My only complaint is that they really should have tried to get there at the same time. Then they could have fought to the death in a frenzied battle of snarling, lashing venom and fang, which is frankly the bit that makes nature interesting, when you get down to it. I mean, who would want to watch a wildlife program about lions if the lions never turn up at the same time as the zebra?
I suppose I shouldn't complain. Both beasts have long since left my garden and the worst I have to worry about now are fire ants in my hairy pears.