I have pontificated at some length on the adventures of Bob the spider and his lovely wife, Mrs. Bob. However, they are not by any means alone in their occupation of my dear, dog-eared little cottage. They have, so far, confined their presence to the bathtub (which makes the relocation process much easier, since their dark shapes are easy to discern against the porcelain, and, once the cup has been put into play, the smooth surface precludes the availability of escape routes that would appear on a less even surface).

Another bathroom window, on the other side of the sink, is home to another talented, yet much-maligned, species.

The creatures that produce these structures are usually known as dirt-daubers, yet their multi-hued, intricately formed dwellings should earn them a better epithet. Clay crafters? Adobe artisans? (Notice I tried to continue with the alliteration, although I must report that alliteration refers only to repeated consonant sounds, while “adobe artisans” has a repeated vowel sound. This literary device is known as “assonance,” a term that has afforded unbridled delight to many generations of junior high students.)

I have examined the work of the so-called dirt-daubers from every angle, and, in early October, there is no one home. I am not sure when their of activity falls. A bit of my special fly-by-night research has informed me that, while dirt daubers can indeed sting multiple times, and pack a punch while doing so, they usually don’t unless you get right up in pointy little faces. They do, however, eat spiders, so I should warn the Bobs.

Pan to the left, still in this tiny bathroom, and you will see another window facing west, from which several of the small, old-fashioned glass panes have fallen. This window, being open to the outdoors, was for one summer season home to a family of birds. I was not here at the time, but my sister Laura kept me apprised of the fledglings’ progress. The family came and went through the window, so they didn’t cross paths with visiting humans as a rule.

Such creatures as flutter, scurry and creep have certainly adapted themselves to human technology. For the most part, I am grudgingly willing to share my living space and my stuff, but I do take issue with the Winter Wasps. In case you didn’t grow up in an old house in Virginia, a Winter Wasp is a wasp that, nearing the end of its brief life, can’t fly any more, and instead creeps around on the floor, its brown shape blending perfectly with the hardwood flooring. For some ridiculous reason, the closer these things get to death the stronger their venom, so stepping on one is just no fun at all. My mother named these creatures, collectively, Harris.

But no, I don’t squish them either. Whenever I encounter Harris, dragging himself weakly across my floor, obviously hoping to sting the hell out of somebody just one last time, I pick him up gently in a cup and toss him outside. Does this prolong his life? I don’t know, but at least I tried.