Another day, another critter.

My husband was looking for his walking boots this morning, with the intention of going around the property to check on the nest-building progress in the ten bluebird boxes that we have set up around the pastures.  The county gives a tax-break for having those bluebird boxes on one's property... the bluebird being a protected bird of Texas, and the Powers That Be would not like to see those birds get anywhere close to the 'soon to be extinct' list.

So the little wooden birdhouses go up around the property, then are checked every two weeks for nests, eggs, fledglings... and recorded on reports that get sent into the county office every year. Everybody's happy, especially the little bluebirds.

With the recent heavy rains, the grasses in the pastures are nearly knee-high. In order to walk safely out there, one needs boots. (I have boots, but I don't walk in grass that's higher than the soles of my shoes.... just to be on the safe side of snakes, fire ants, and heaven only knows what.)  With all of that in mind, it is my husband who makes the rounds of the property to take photos of the nests and baby birds. When he comes back, he shows me the pictures, which is enough of an 'experience' for me.

As we were looking for his boots, put away in such a good place that neither of us remembered where they were, I suggested to him that we shake them upside-down when we found them, to make sure nothing was hiding inside of the boots.

"You think too much about bugs," he told me. "What could be hiding in my boots?"

Fine. If he didn't want to check his boots for visitors, fine. But I certainly would.  And I did, since I was the one who found the boots.

First, I called out to my husband that I had his boots. Then, as I waited for him to get to that side of the house, I turned each boot over and pounded them upside-down on the courtyard by the garage. From inside the first boot, nothing. From the second boot, a dead tarantula.

Well. I'm patting myself on the back for not screaming. I'm also patting myself on the back for thinking too much about bugs and pounding those boots on the courtyard.

I'm also patting myself on the back for not saying "I told you so!" to a certain husband who thinks that I'm thoroughly obsessed with the array of wildlife and insect life that surrounds us on this surprise-infested property.