Fishbone's Song by Gary Paulsen Page B

powerful, I was glad spiders weren’t as big as dogs—and turned the moth over and over, three or four times, wrapping it in strands of web to keep it there, hold it there, and was almost done, turning away, when a mosquito hit the web on the opposite side from the moth.
    Caught.
    Tangled and snagged, much smaller than the moth, but still food for the spider, who moved from the moth, ran back across the web, injected the mosquito, tied it with two quick wraps, and then left it and went back to the moth.
    A thing to see, to tell Fishbone. But how did it know? How did the spider know to wrap the mothseveral times, the mosquito with two quick wraps, then back to the moth, which it took into his funnel home and ate while I watched? Ate it all while it moved to the mouth of the little tunnel and kept one of his four eyes, or maybe more than one, on the mosquito, which was still in the web.
    Finished with the moth, having sucked the body completely dry, he threw the empty carcass out, off the web, then ran back for the mosquito body and brought it back to the nest. Tied it up to the side of the tunnel.
    But didn’t eat it.
    Saving it for later. Maybe. Probably.
    But again, it all had to be thought out. Everything he did, was doing, had to be thought of, an idea, and then followed through. A plan. He had to make a plan, think it all out, eat one bug, the moth, save the next for when he was hungry again. But not leave it out where something else could get at it. He brought the mosquito back intohis tunnel, his house. Hung it up for later.
    All thought out. Where to put the web up, how to build the web, how to wait and watch, how to deal with the moth, then the mosquito. How to save food. How . . .
    How to think, I said to Fishbone that evening. Sitting with a cat. New cat, just showed up, purring and meowing. Kind of scraggly and beat-up, but just jumped up in Fishbone’s lap and made himself to home. Or herself. Could have been either way. Hard to tell. Old Blue dog five or six was there too, down by the rocker, but he and the cat had worked things out between them and they just sat, or laid, listening. Seeming to listen except the dog was mostly asleep. Now and then twitching an eyelid half-open, then closing it slowly. Big old hound. Mostly ate and goobered spit on things when he shook his head. Spit on the walls, the ceiling boards, the stove. Big lips, big drool. But Fishbone liked him. Said he hada lot of love in him, so he was worth a little spit here and there.
    He knew how to think, I said again. The spider knew things, how to work things out and make them happen. He hunted, snared with the web. He was a better hunter than me. Thought things out better than I did. Brain the size of the head of a pin, if that, and he was better than me.
    Shook his head. Not better. Same as. Same as you, same as me.
    Spiders, I said. Bugs. We’re all the same. Not really a question this time. Just said it.
    All things, all things. Have the same things to need. Food, air, kind of shelter, other things like us, so we’re not alone. More food, more air, water. Doesn’t matter if you’re us, or a bug or a leaf on a tree.
    But you’re alone.
    Not in myself, not in my head. Have all the people I knew, all the dogs and cats, all the airI breathed, all the food I ate, all the beauty I’ve seen and still see. Got you, got this dog, this cat. Got the squirrel we’re going to have for an evening meal with gravy and biscuits. Got a roof over my head . . .
    But, I said.
    Got life. Got a life. Same as you, same as the dog here or the cat . . .
    Or the squirrel.
    Same as, long nod. He had a life. It all starts and goes and it all ends. Like the moth the spider killed and ate, the mosquito, the squirrel. Pretty soon I’ll go, then the worms get me.
    No, I said.
    Another slow nod. Then a sigh, like held air going out. Shoes moving, shuffle-pat, shuffle-pat. For sure, for sure. I’m