When I was little, I hated spiders. I hated the way they crawled quickly across the floor, their 8 legs moving in hyperspeed. I hated them in high school in the shower, where I'd look above the nozzle to see an arachnid dangling in mid-air, its daddy-long legs swaying in the steam. One time I threw a towel at the spider, and flung it all the way across the bathroom. I hated how they'd hang from one of the three rafters in my bedroom, above my bed, building a web. I think they were just trying to tease me. My stepdad would run to the rescue, and carry that spider out by one leg, and throw it on the deck. Boy, I hated spiders, but they didn't deserve to die.
Friday night, I noticed a big, black spider, just chillin' in my bathtub downstairs. My heart skipped a beat, but then I breathed, and noticed the thing only flinched when I turned the light on, but otherwise stayed still.
"GROSS!!!!!" I screeched at David, "There's a SPIDER in the tub!!!"
"Do you want me to kill it?"
"No", I lamented. Then I went to bed.
Every time I've used the restroom since then, I've looked for the spider first. As soon as I see him perched beneath the shower curtain, I feel okay. At least he isn't running somewhere on those creepy legs of his. I just had to remember he was in there before I took a shower.
Today, I was watching television when I noticed David dashing out the front door from the bathroom, holding a piece of paper. He was saving the spider's life, putting it outside.
"I GOT HIM!"
"How did you do that? He just CRAWLED on that piece of paper?"
"Yes, I put it next to him, and he walked right on."
"I'm so glad you didn't kill him."
"I wouldn't have killed him, unless you asked me to."
Yes, we are good together. I'm glad he wouldn't kill it, snuff the thing's life out, just because of hatred. I hate spiders, but they deserve to live. I know in the long run, they do things for us we coudn't even imagine.