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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to change. I think you truly can train a seasoned creature, as long as the experienced individual is willing and willing to learn. So long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was in error, and work to become a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, despite the fact that I am decrepit? It is an significant challenge, something I have grappled with, often, for my entire life. I have been trying … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Apologies to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be pragmatic about my possible growth as a human. The focus must remain on the huntsman because it is large, commanding, and the one I run into regularly. Encompassing a trio of instances in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. I'm not visible to you, but I'm grimacing with discomfort as I type.

It's unlikely I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I’ve been working on at least achieving Normal about them.

I have been terrified of spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). Growing up, I had ample brothers around to make sure I never had to confront any directly, but I still panicked if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the family room partition. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, nearly crossing the threshold (lest it ran after me), and spraying a significant portion of pesticide toward it. The chemical cloud missed the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and disturb everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or cohabiting with was, as a matter of course, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore tasked with managing the intruder, while I produced frightened noises and ran away. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, douse the illumination and try to ignore its existence before I had to return.

Not long ago, I stayed at a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the window frame, mostly just hanging out. To be less fearful, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us chat. It sounds quite foolish, but it had an impact (somewhat). Alternatively, actively deciding to become less phobic did the trick.

Be that as it may, I’ve tried to keep it up. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they prey upon things like buzzing nuisances (creatures I despise). I know they are one of nature’s beautiful, non-threatening to people creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to walk like that. They move in the most terrifying and almost unjust way imaginable. The appearance of their many legs carrying them at that frightening pace causes my ancient psyche to kick into overdrive. They claim to only have the typical arachnid arrangement, but I am convinced that multiplies when they get going.

Yet it cannot be blamed on them that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – perhaps even more so. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of trying not to have a visceral panic reaction and run away when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and intentionally reflecting about their positive qualities, has begun to yield results.

Just because they are furry beings that scuttle about at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they deserve my hatred, or my high-pitched vocalizations. It is possible to acknowledge when fear has clouded my judgment and driven by irrational anxiety. It is uncertain I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” level, but one can't be sure. Some life is left for this seasoned learner yet.