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I firmly hold the belief that it is always possible to change. My view is you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks, on the condition that the old dog is open-minded and eager for knowledge. As long as the old dog is ready to confess when it was wrong, and work to become a improved version.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the trick I am working to acquire, although I am a creature of habit? It is an major undertaking, something I have grappled with, repeatedly, for my entire life. The quest I'm on … to develop a calmer response toward those large arachnids. My regrets to all the other spiders that exist; I have to be realistic about my possible growth as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is sizeable, dominant, and the one I encounter most often. This includes a trio of instances in the last week. Within my dwelling. You can’t see me, but I'm grimacing at the very thought as I type.

I doubt I’ll ever reach “admirer” status, but I've dedicated effort to at least attaining Normal about them.

A deep-seated fear of spiders from my earliest years (unlike other children who find them delightful). In my formative years, I had ample brothers around to ensure I never had to confront any personally, but I still became hysterical if one was visibly in the immediate vicinity as me. I have a strong memory of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and facing the ordeal of a spider that had crawled on to the family room partition. I “handled” with it by retreating to a remote corner, almost into the next room (in case it pursued me), and spraying a significant portion of insect spray toward it. The spray failed to hit the spider, but it managed to annoy and irritate everyone in my house.

With the passage of time, my romantic partner at the time or cohabiting with was, by default, the least afraid of spiders out of the two of us, and therefore in charge of managing the intruder, while I produced frightened noises and ran away. In moments of solitude, my strategy was simply to leave the room, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to re-enter.

In a recent episode, I visited a friend’s house where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who made its home in the window frame, primarily hanging out. In order to be more comfortable with its presence, I imagined the spider as a 'girlie', a one of the girls, one of us, just lounging in the sun and overhearing us gab. It sounds extremely dumb, but it worked (a little bit). Put another way, making a conscious choice to become more fearless worked.

Whatever the case, I've endeavored to maintain this practice. I reflect upon all the rational arguments not to be scared. It is a fact that huntsman spiders are not dangerous to humans. I understand they prey upon things like insect pests (my mortal enemies). I know they are one of the planet's marvelous, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Yet, regrettably, they do continue to scuttle like that. They travel in the utterly horrifying and somehow offensive way imaginable. The appearance of their many legs carrying them at that terrible speed causes my ancient psyche to enter panic mode. They claim to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that increases exponentially when they are in motion.

But it isn’t their fault that they have unnerving limbs, and they have the same privilege to be where I am – possibly a greater claim. I’ve found that implementing the strategy of making an effort to avoid instantly leap out of my body and run away when I see one, attempting to stay still and breathing, and consciously focusing about their good points, has proven somewhat effective.

The mere fact that they are hairy creatures that scuttle about at an alarming rate in a way that haunts my sleep, doesn’t mean they merit my intense dislike, or my high-pitched vocalizations. I am willing to confess when my reactions have been misguided and driven by unfounded fear. It is uncertain I’ll ever make it to the “catching one in a Tupperware container and taking it outside” level, but you never know. There’s a few years left in this old dog yet.