The Bug in Our Year

Scenario: The three of us are at home. Suddenly, a Hexapod, Chelicerate, or Myriapod (a beetle, spider, or centipede to anyone who hasn’t recently consulted an encyclopedia) becomes apparent. Before George can check it out with his nose or ascertain its edibility, the closer human reaches for what? Fly swatter? Newspaper? Claw hammer? No, a medicine vial. Not to cure it, but to trap it and transport it outside. Submitted for your consideration and possible deriseration: the why, the how, and the who of this admittedly unconventional method of dealing with the arthropods (aka “bugs”) who share our home.

After a succession of one- and two-bedroom apartments during my army, law school, and clerkship days, the Missus and I went just a little nuts three years ago, going from 1250 SF on a quarter-acre in suburban Springfield to 2700 SF on 1.7 acres in rural Clifton. Each of the three of us could, if he or she wanted, have one bedroom, with one left over for a guest. Add living room, dining room, family room, rec room, and library, and we have rooms that we might not enter for months at a time.

I say this, certainly, not to brag (As I suggested, it was not our most thoroughly thought-through decision.), but to suggest that this situation creates two conditions:

First, an often uncomfortable awareness that we take up a lot of space once the exclusive province of a vast array of wildlife, from bears to bugs, but mostly the latter.

Second, a surplus of unoccupied, relatively quiet, temperate spaces to which certain individuals, in search of venues for their buggy business, might find themselves drawn.

Having created these conditions, we hesitate to treat our guests with (as the quaint saying goes) “extreme prejudice.” Thus, the wildlife relocation program. How?

The Tools. As we developed this practice, we at first started leaving small vials, or even empty Pop-Fizz containers, staged strategically about the house. However, as one of our neighbors, who moved to Clifton from nearby Centreville, phrased it, “When my ZIP code increased by three numbers, the spiders increased by three sizes.” What I’m saying is, these are not just stretch spiders, but toy tarantulas. Thus, the wide mouth vial.

The Capture. The easiest method is to lay the vial on its side, allow the animal to enter of its own volition, and then right the vial, trap the bug in the bottom, and put on the lid. This, however, is frustrated by Man’s dominion over creation. Over many generations, Man has destroyed the stupid and the slow, bidding the clever and the quick to “be fruitful and multiply.” Thus, for most, one must drop the vial on them, slide the lid up under the edge, and nudge the captive toward the bottom. The ceiling capture is the easiest: Bring the vial up from below, dislodge the interloper, and then cap the vial before it can climb up from the bottom.

The Release. Most of our guests are escorted briskly to the deck and dropped off on the rail. Biters and stingers merit special treatment. As I carry a spider toward the deck, I examine it closely, looking for the violin marking of the brown recluse or a fixed, homicidal glare in what I think are its eyes, suggesting that he intends us harm at the next opportunity. When in doubt, I stand on the deck with the wind to my back, uncap the vial, and throw the intruder about one spider mile from the house. For the hornets we sometimes catch starting nests between the screen and the window, we provide door-to-hollow-tree service in our woods.

Based on what I have told you, you may have concluded that we are bug-huggers, and that vermin of every description are eligible for our catch-and-release program. The truth is more complex. We use a sort of utility assessment: Every form of life presumably has some function to perform in our ecology, and to eradicate one form could upset the balance of nature. For example, the spiders and mantises keep other species in check; kill them off, and their prey species become too numerous. However, the function of some bugs eludes us. Flies? Mosquitoes? The only function I perceive is as a mass transit system for microbes. So, although everyone gets to go outside, not everyone arrives alive. Some, like the flies and mosquitoes, leave by way of the trash can. For the rest, we employ the golden rule, treating them as we would want to be treated, were we born bugs.

The late Richard Vaughn, 20th-Century journalist and humorist, wrote: “We hope that, when the insects take over the world, they will remember with gratitude how we took them along on all our picnics.” I do not believe the arthropods will take over during the age of humans. If bugs become dominant, it will be because we have added homo sapiens to the list of species we have eradicated from the earth, and the justice we face will not be that of bugs. I fear more that we will someday encounter a species who, by virtue of its physical, mental, or mechanical prowess, could dominate humans as humans now dominate bugs.

I hope that such a species would engage in the same utilitarian calculus in which we engage daily. But even if it does—as it attempts to divine our function, to weigh our utility, by observing how we interact with one other, with other species, and with the earth—will we qualify as the spider or the fly; the mantis or the mosquito?