I mean, seriously, the size of a man’s hand? Kill a dog with one bite? Hisses when pissed? Frig!
I really can’t stand spiders. I know they aren’t going to actually leap five meters and attached themselves to my face while they empty my eyesockets, but I feel like that’s what they’re going to do.
Once, while in Murree, we noticed a massive spider hanging on the wall above our bed. It had a diameter of about two inches. If you add in freak-a-dex factor (like Humidex, but related to freakiness instead of humidity) it was at least two feet and had blood dripping from its fangs. Now, you would think that seeing such a thing would motivate me, the noble husband and father, to get into protect-family-mode and grapple with the beast.
First I tried to get Ruth to kill it. When she refused I ran downstairs to see if my buddy Jon was home. He wasn’t. His wife was. She saved us, squshing it with a plastic golf club while I screamed like a girl.
It’s too bad, really. Because I know spiders won’t hurt me. But I feel they will. I guess that’s just another way we’re screwed up, right? My knowledge, experience and reason all take a back seat to the nearly all-powerful god of motivation: feelings.