The tarantula, reappraised.
It takes many hours to deconstruct and dissolve a cricket or, in the case of the large Mexican tarantulas, a crayfish, small frog, lizard, snake, or even a dead fish. It’s not a pretty process. The spiders use limbs close to their mouths to macerate the victim, then drool out enzymes to break it down. The resulting soupy solution of partially digested prey is drawn back through the mouth by the tarantula’s sucking stomach.
Though they don’t create beautiful webs, tarantulas do make silk. They can wrap their prey to eat later, and some kinds of tarantulas use sticky silk to gather up soil and move it around as they remodel their homes.
Silk is also sexy. The male uses a sheet as a sort of pillow for his seminal fluid. He then dips the points of his palpal bulbs—black organs at the end of his pedipalps, into the fluid until the bulbs are filled.
The actual process of insemination is tricky, and can turn tragic. The drama begins when the male approaches the lip of the burrow and announces his desire by drumming his front legs on the ground. If the female is in the mood, she’ll drum back.
When he comes near, she’s likely to charge out of her burrow looking threatening. If she’s not feeling cooperative, she will kill him and eat him.
Otherwise, the male taps her on the back and, if receptive, she rises on her hind legs and spreads her fangs. The male tarantula uses the handy spurs on his forelegs to lock those fangs, and then hoists her up to get access to her genital region—the epigastric furrow. If he doesn’t get a good grip, she may kill him. If he’s skilled enough to manage a secure hold, he still has some legs free to stroke her belly, an act that is said to induce a trance, certainly a desirable state. He then inserts each sperm-laden palpal bulb into the female’s genital opening. The mating process would seem to select for males with upper body strength combined with massage expertise. (Just like humans.)
The act complete, he releases one of her fangs, then the other, and backs off promptly. Sperm can remain in the female’s receptacle until the following summer when she produces the eggs. Fertilization occurs as the eggs are being laid, not internally.
Tarantula lovers can get a little dewy-eyed watching the female care for her egg sac, which contains 500 to 1,000 eggs and is made from her silk. (From egg laying to emergence takes 45 to 65 days.) She rolls it out of the entrance of the burrow to warm in the sun, and either sits over it like a hen on her eggs or keeps one or two feet on the cocoon so she can pull it back inside when something comes near. The maternal protective behavior is not dependable; if she’s disturbed or the sac is not viable the mother spider may extract the young and eat them.
Safely hatched young stay within the birth burrow for several weeks. Baby tarantula mortality is high because the young may eat each other at that point, and their mother will eat them if they stay with her too long.
The spiderlings depart, not by ballooning—sending silken threads out to catch an air current in kite fashion—as the orb weavers do, but on foot, with a slow, dignified gait. If they didn't split up as they dispersed, they’d eat each other.
Sure, they’re cannibals, but there are aspects of tarantula life that inspire sympathy, like molting. As the spider grows it undergoes sequential molts, getting a larger exoskeleton each time. The separation of the old exoskeleton happens when fluid is secreted into the gap between the old and the underlying new body. During the hours of molting the spider’s crucial sensitivity to sounds and motion is suspended, rendering it vulnerable to predators. Before hardening in the air, the new skin can tear and cause the spider to die from loss of blood. The male molts for the last time when he matures but the female continues to molt annually as long as she lives. On the plus side of the ordeal, a lost limb can be regenerated over successive molts.
The tarantulas may be baby-eaters and sibling eaters and husband-killers, but the truly ghastly actor in this story is the Pompilid or Sphecid wasp, a spider's worst enemy. Attacked, the tarantula rears up to show its fangs—in this case a poor strategy. The wasp injects paralyzing poison in the spider’s belly and drags the motionless beast to a hole. There the mother wasp lays an egg on the spider’s abdomen, ensuring fresh meat for her offspring. The hatched larva consumes the living, paralyzed tarantula.
Back to Dr. Baerg, who was willing to risk his life to demonstrate that tarantulas are no threat to humans. He retired from teaching in 1951, publishing The Tarantula in 1958. Somehow the screenwriters for Dr. No, at work a few years later, missed the information in his charming book, and especially his sensible summary: "To anyone who has learned to know this spider, it is as handsome as a goldfinch and fully as interesting.”
Constance Casey is a former New York City Department of Parks gardener and writes the monthly "Species" column for Landscape Architecture Magazine.