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There are numerous spiders in my garden, and there are also a few representatives in my house: long-legged ones that spin their webs in corners of the ceiling, short-legged ones that do not spin webs but rather stroll across the wall and leap upon their prey like miniature leopards; and sometimes lovely radial webs are constructed between the posts of the balcony railings, and when I notice a web like this I make a point of watching its owner weaving it anew by night.

I neither remove nor drive away any of them, despite the fact that I was once bitten by a house spider known as the brown recluse. Its bite can cause localized gangrene and may require surgery. This same recluse spider hid inside a shirt I was wearing, and I was lucky enough to feel its presence immediately. I struck it without actually seeing it when the spider was on the inside of my shirt. Its bite was weaker than it could have been, and the results were similarly less severe.

From time to time a scary-looking spider appears. It is large, black, and hairy, and it goes by the name of the black furrier and belongs to the tarantula family. Its bite is not dangerous but can be painful. Although I am not black, do not bite, and am not hairy, I am bigger and stronger than the black furrier, and apparently more intelligent. For this reason, when I see one in the garden, I leave it alone, but when I see one in the house I place a sheet of paper on the floor in front of the spider—it lifts up a pair of front legs and waves them threateningly—and I push it with a light touch from behind. The spider immediately moves onto the sheet of paper, displaying surprise and insult. I carry the sheet of paper outside and sweep the spider off it onto the garden soil, where it is free to live. Because there, in the garden, live the truly serious spiders: wolf spiders, orb weavers, grass spiders, and, one day, I even saw a black widow spider.

The orb weaver is the biggest weaver of webs that I know. Its web is so strong that a person coming across it while walking in a field will feel the resistance of its threads. As a boy, I saw and felt those webs many times, both in the fields of Nahalal, especially between rows of vine, and also in the field close to the neighborhood where I lived in Jerusalem. Today I no longer see it. A few years ago, an orb weaver spun a large web close to the entrance to the house, and I rejoiced with great joy and watched it for several hours. But summer passed and the orb weaver, in a spidery kind of way, disappeared with it, and the next summer there were no rightful heirs to take its place.

Within the rosemary and lavender bushes reside tiny spiders who spin webs that resemble hammocks, and large grass spiders, too. Their webs are thick and dense and are gathered into a deep funnel within which they hide. When an insect is caught in the web and tries to extricate itself, the spiders sense its palpitations, pounce on it immediately, and drag it back into the funnel.

Wolf spiders are similarly large and live in shafts in the soil. I have never caught them digging these shafts, and it is certainly possible that they simply take over and improve existing holes, but they certainly invest much work and planning in their building. They cover the sides of the opening and the walls of the shaft with a fine, dense sheet of webbing to ease climbing and prevent collapse, particularly needed when pouncing out of the lair to chase prey.

And there is another spider I enjoy looking at. It lives right inside flowers, a logical place from which to ambush insects. Its shape resembles that of a crab and its coloration changes like that of a chameleon: the spider turns white when among virgin’s bower or squill, and reddish on Chinese honeysuckle. It typically creeps up on its prey or stands and waits, motionless, legs akimbo. The insect, wallowing inside the flower and gorging itself on pollen and nectar, does not notice the gradual tightening of the spider’s legs around it until it is too late. Because of its resemblance to a tiny crab and also because of its hunting ground, this lovely spider is known as the flower crab spider.

There is only one genuinely dangerous spider in my garden, the black widow I previously mentioned. In contrast to the furrier spider, whose shape is scary and mannerisms threatening, the black widow spider is small, comely, and delicate. Sometimes it is adorned with red markings, but its bites can be deadly. One day I came across a widow spider in my garden. I placed it in a jar, brought the jar inside, and began deliberating: Should I keep the spider or give it to someone else? And if the latter, should I let the designated victim know of this gift he or she is about to receive? Or should I just wait to read the bereavement notices in the newspaper? And most important: To whom should I give it? And why? Might this be a personal vendetta or a public service for one and all?

All kinds of candidates immediately came to mind for all sorts of reasons. Finally, I kept the widow in my own garden, because—if it is to be a wild one—let there be danger, too. Since then I have not seen it. Perhaps the spider died in winter the way spiders do, but I reckon it produced offspring, and I even wonder if some of them are still in my garden. I say this because some of those who visit the garden—uninvited guests, pooping dogs, brides being photographed, tax collectors, and thieves—will think twice before visiting. Aside from that, like those who hang BEWARE OF BITING DOG signs on their gates, I hereby announce there may be black widow spiders in my garden. With this announcement I declare myself exempt from any complaint or legal action.

Venomous centipedes, black scorpions, and snakes also appear in the garden. Sometimes a whip snake appears, an amiable and elegant creature that is harmless but whose numbers are dwindling because it, too, is targeted by the feline population. Occasionally I come across a coin-marked snake—a semivenomous snake—between tree branches, when the birds whose nest the snake is climbing to gather around it and kick up a god-awful commotion. But I have also seen a viper in my garden on a few occasions, and when it happens I spring into action and capture the snake alive using a mop and a stick. I hold it for a while—one hand on its neck and the other on its tail—and after my heartbeat returns to normal and my legs feel less like calf’s-foot jelly, I carry it to the forest and set it free.

Why do I play this dangerous game? First of all, because I can. To be more precise—because I still can. Second, because very few games remain that can be played without being persecuted for desecrating the name of the Lord, desecrating politeness, political correctness, and various other crimes and sins. I also do it in order to keep fit and to generate a bit of adrenaline, a substance that does good things to a person. And also, I admit, to strengthen my standing among members of the collective agricultural movement of the Jezreel Valley, who are way more manly and robust than I, and the majority of whom can carry a bull on their shoulders, but who are terrified of vipers. I do this for a further reason, because there is also a wild garden in the heart of man and it, too, is of importance and has rights. More precisely, not quite in the heart, but under the diaphragm, in a wonderful place, a decent and honest one, where intuition flourishes and butterflies flutter, otherwise known as butterflies in the stomach.

Aside from that, the day will come for me to stop. A person must know his limitations and recognize the decline of his abilities with time, and just as I stopped riding a motorcycle, the day will come when I will stop writing books and trapping vipers. For example—in my adolescence I would trap and free snakes, but I stopped because I realized I no longer had the dexterity or the accuracy, and I began to feel fear. The black whip snake is faster, stronger, and more aggressive than the viper. It is not venomous but is difficult to catch alive, and its bite can wound and cause pain.

Once or twice each summer a whip snake passes through my garden, and for the last few years, rather than chasing after it, I simply observe. I enjoy the fortitude and elegance that radiates from its body. But one day I found a large black snake inside my composter. I was about to open the lid in order to add some trash from the kitchen when I sensed a hushed movement, an undetermined one, emanating from the gloomy interior. I could not make out what it was I had seen, but in the additional wild garden previously mentioned, the one I grow and cultivate between stomach and heart, a few primitive responses still linger, and although my eyes could not see and my mind could not understand, goose bumps ran up the length of my spine and the back of my head. My hands, as if of their own accord, quickly replaced the lid.

I closed it. I recomposed myself. I took a flashlight and opened the lid again. And indeed, curled up in the composter was a big black snake. A very big black snake. Judging by its thickness, I guessed it was more than seven feet long. The snake raised its head a little, tensed its body, and stared at me—and the blood froze in my veins. I left the composter open, withdrew, and watched it from a distance. The snake, as I had hoped, made its exit within minutes. What was it doing in the composter anyway? I suppose I threw something in there that attracted a rat or a mouse, and it, in turn, attracted the snake.

On the advice of my attorney I will add here a clarification and a warning: readers should not take my words as a recommendation to catch venomous snakes or fraternize with black widows.