I was in the bathroom a couple nights ago, washing up before bed, when I heard Mr.Q curse - under his breath, but quite vehemently nonetheless: "Holy shit!" His chair moved, and I heard him stomp into the hallway.
I stuck my head out the door to ask if he was OK, and I saw him running, crouched over, into the bedroom. He was wielding a board game and smashing it against the floor as he ran. There was some rustling about and more cursing before he emerged from the bedroom. He looked rather dejected.
When I asked him about it, he said a HUGE spider had come scuttling down the hall, and he was trying to get it before I saw it and freaked out. (And he would much rather "liberate" a spider than kill it, so I know it must have been a monster...eew!)
He then went back into the bedroom, armed with the board game and a flashlight, to see if he could flush it out. No luck, but he carefully scouted the floor around the bed for me before I got into it - and again in the morning, before I got up. And there were a couple other (smaller!) spiders liberated over the weekend, as well.
Today is a good day to acknowledge his would-be heroics. For all that I expect to be found under an avalanche of vinyl one day, he is still my knight in shining armour. Or something. Anyway, it's 7 years today that we stood in front of that red drum kit (not on a flat-bed truck!) and said "we do."
We still do. I think I'll keep him!