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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to transform. I think you can in fact train a seasoned creature, provided that the mature being is willing and eager for knowledge. As long as the person is ready to confess when it was mistaken, and endeavor to transform into a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the lesson I am trying to learn, although I am a creature of habit? It is an important one, a feat I have struggled with, repeatedly, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward huntsman spiders. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures 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, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. This includes three times in the last week. Inside my home. Though unseen, but I'm grimacing and grimacing as I type.

I'm skeptical I’ll ever reach “enthusiast” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least achieving Normal about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (unlike other children who adore them). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to guarantee I never had to engage with any personally, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. Vividly, I recall of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and trying to deal with a spider that had made its way onto the family room partition. I “managed” with it by positioning myself at a great distance, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it pursued me), and emptying a significant portion of pesticide toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it managed to annoy and irritate everyone in my house.

As I got older, whoever I was dating or sharing a home with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders between us, and therefore responsible for handling the situation, while I produced low keening sounds and ran away. In moments of solitude, my strategy was simply to vacate the area, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to enter again.

Recently, I visited a friend’s house where there was a very large huntsman who made its home in the casement, for the most part hanging out. As a means to be less scared of it, I envisioned the spider as a 'girlie', a girlie, one of us, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us gab. It sounds rather silly, but it was effective (somewhat). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become more fearless proved successful.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I contemplate all the rational arguments not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders won’t harm me. I recognize they eat things like insect pests (the bane of my existence). It is well-established they are one of the planet's marvelous, benign creatures.

Alas, they do continue to move like that. They move in the most terrifying and borderline immoral way imaginable. The sight of their numerous appendages propelling them at that frightening pace causes my ancient psyche to kick into overdrive. They ostensibly only have a standard octet of limbs, but I maintain that multiplies when they get going.

Yet it is no fault of their own that they have unnerving limbs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. My experience has shown that implementing the strategy of trying not to instantly leap out of my body and retreat when I see one, attempting to stay composed and breathing steadily, and consciously focusing about their good points, has actually started to help.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that causes me nocturnal distress, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my girly screams. I can admit when fear has clouded my judgment and driven by irrational anxiety. I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” phase, but one can't be sure. A bit of time remains for this veteran of life yet.