The other day I escorted nearly fifty Asian ladybugs out of my apartment. The newspaper tells me that they are looking for a nice warm place for the winter. Perhaps the appeal is the comfy-cozy of my kitchen, sweetened with the scent of homemade lavender soap drying in the pantry. Of course I wasn’t the least disgusted since we all know that ladybugs are cute, even in quantity. If it had been a less charming class of bug, I expect my reaction to their invasion would have been rather less polite.

The strange thing is that my new apartment seems to be a magnet for creatures of every sort. A variety of spiders, cute and otherwise, adorn my ceilings. This morning, a daddy long-legs scaled the shower wall, using water droplets as handholds in a spider “climbing wall.” I steadfastly ignored him and reminded myself that spiders eat the other more icky insects, something my mother was always quick to point out. Considering the number of buggy visitors, I figured on leaving the spider to her own devices. I know of only one famous spider, Charlotte of Charlotte’s Web, but you never know. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the loss of a literary watershed, or the survival of more unwanted bugs.

Indeed, I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve always believed that my cats have a right to self determination. I leave the sliding door open a cat’s tummy width so they can wander about the burdocks of my back yard. My feeling is that I’d rather they had short delirious lives leaping after butterflies than long dull ones under the protective custody of my apartment. Despite this philosophical dedication to my cats’ happiness, they usually sit right on the brink of the door, with apartment heat toasting their backsides and a frosty Vermont breeze ruffling their whiskers.

The neighborhood pets undoubtedly sense the animal-friendly atmosphere as well, and make regular social calls to my place. One of the most persistent is an orange striped tabby, twenty pounds, and dead set on moving in. I may have mixed feelings about him (sometimes I weaken and stroke his broad furry head), but my cats don’t. They hiss and get all worked up, but can’t fight something twice their size. When not sneaking into my bedroom to curl up on the comforter, he’s sitting in the windowbox outside the bathroom mewing delicately. I’m convinced that he used to live in my apartment, maybe even was born there. What else would explain his absolute and determined conviction?

If only I could escort him out as easily as the drowsy ladybugs who have shown no sign of returning. If only my cats recognized their duty to make appetizers of the excess spiders, or at least the ones that drop down beside them. Perhaps this is the tradeoff for living in the country and harboring such a peculiar philosophy. Is it self determination for those ladybugs, or could it just have been my warm kitchen?

Copyright January, 1999

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