Defenders of small prey

Let us begin with this: I dislike spiders.

It's evolved from many years of arachnophobia, which I've steadily controlled. I mean, when your father (for a laugh), calls your 11-year-old self outside to show you a massive daddy long-legs crawling out of his mouth, how could you not feel some aversion to spiders? (Especially after dear old dad picks a stray leg out of his teeth?)

Yet I no longer kill spiders. I can pick them up (but only if I must), and I generally am ambivalent to their existence on earth. No therapy required.

This evening, one such creature was sitting on the ceiling of the attic. One of those kind of yellow-greeny translucent spiders that hangs about in the corners, but doesn't seem inclined to drop on you unexpectedly.
"It must die," snarled Chris, ever the deliverer of death to insects, as he reached for some shoe, piece of magazine or a large, shiny machete.
"Oh, leave it," said I, unaware that as I spoke the words, some god was laughing softly to itself. Who knew I was playing with the very folds of karma? "It's not hurting anything."

Fast forward to four hours later. I'm sitting, having a nice laugh as I watch a borrowed DVD of Black Books (an amusing little series from a couple of years ago). Something tickles my chin. I scratch. My chin suddenly hurts, and something has fallen into my shirt -- the bosomy part.

Panic.

The shirt comes off immediately, and I slap at my poor chest, desperately trying to brush off whatever biting monstrosity dared intrude upson my serene (but amusing) television-watching. My chin hurts. A lot. I run to the bathroom, to see a raised spot form amid a red rash on my chin.

So if my next report is of a chin amputation (not that I have much of a chin -- thank you, English genes)... well, you know why.

This is what comes of respecting life, no matter how small. It always bites you in the ass. Or, in my case, in the chin.