In the unofficial calendar of the Pacific Northwest, somewhere between Juneuary and snowmageddon, spider season sits in wait. Just as the leaves start to turn and the fuzzy scarves come out of storage, our eight legged friends start to pop up everywhere. Hear me out, though: our annual influx of spiders is...not that bad.

Despite their numbers, spider season is due to just two main arachnids. The indoor giant house spider sports a name that isn't doing it any favors, while the European cross orbweaver, who lives outside, at least sounds like a character in The Wheel of Time. Like so many among us, both are non-native species to the region. Though certainly we can appreciate that these transplants don't drive up real estate prices.

Rod Crawford has been Seattle's arachnid guy for more than 50 years. He's worked at the University Of Washington's Burke Museum since 1971, and he can set his calendar by the fervor over so-called spider season. But he's mostly interested in the dozens of native species in the Northwest, which he finds at other times of the year. "To someone like me, it's not really spider season yet. It's phone-calls-about-spiders season," he says.

So hear us out: spiders deserve a little respect. As predators, they only eat the insects they catch. If they didn't keep those populations down, we'd see boom-and-bust waves of insects, locust-style. Our local house spiders go after carpet beetles, fleas, bedbugs, and houseflies—yet look at the thanks they get.

Bites? Nah. "Most people think if they wake up with anything from a zit to a fungus infection to a flea bite, it was a spider," says Crawford, but spiders aren't bloodsuckers like the aforementioned bedbugs. Even if they did chomp down, it's harmless; while almost all spiders are technically venomous, that doesn't mean they do much to humans. The only Northwest guys with problematic venom are the rare, shy black widows, which don't live in the Puget Sound metropolitan area. (And before you start panicking about the brown recluse you're sure you spotted the other day, Crawford states definitively that "The nearest brown recluse is in Nebraska.")

As for the spiderwebs that seem to pop up on every garden path this time of year? Cool, actually. And since the orbweavers can throw one together in as little as 20 minutes, hating them might be a losing battle. The structures capture dew and decorate our yards, and the flourish of large webs can be an artful sign of the season. Are you really going to shell out $300 for a giant plastic skeleton but scoff at an artisanal, bespoke web made of all-organic materials?

Listen, I know I'm never going to move the needle for the arachnophobic among us. My mother vacuums so many spiders out of her garage this time of year that she's probably profiled in eight-legged circles as a notorious serial killer. But perhaps the best part about spider season is that it doesn't even matter if you do respond with a killer instinct; the fact that giant house spiders and cross orbweavers are invasive species means it's okay to eradicate them. (Crawford calls the latter a "moderate ecological problem" but not as serious as nature's other invaders.)

In a few weeks, when the star duo of spider season fades from sight, Crawford will begin his spider season; he'll head into the field far from the city and gather 40 or more species in a few hours. He'll save his interest in giant house spiders for when he does hands-on demonstrations for school kids—they're that docile. You can appreciate the proliferation of spiders in early fall, or you can ignore them during their short season in the spotlight. Says Crawford, "My advice is wave as you go by."