The spider that hangs out (literally) between my toilet and the bathroom cabinet is getting a bit too comfortable, I'm afraid. She's been there since I moved in, and her territory has expanded beyond the modest square footage I was willing to allow her. I'm not inclined to roust her out just yet, but it's probably a good thing for her I don't get many visitors. There's a shade too much excess webbing draped loosely around the edges of the tank lid lately.

She's allowed to maintain residence because she is a spider of long, thin legs and a tiny, non-threatening abdomen. The one I killed yesterday had thick legs and a body to match, and it was tramping all over the bathroom floor as if searching for small rodents to harass. I've never liked bullies, and I won't tolerate it in arachnids. I could be wrong about this one's intentions, but sometimes you have to make a decision on the fly, as it were. It was in a place where a bit of shoe leather would rid me of a potential nuisance, et voilà. Adiós, araña.

Alas, I am in a quandary. Not one of those deep quandaries of song and legend. A rather shallow quandary, in fact, but a quandary nonetheless. I pay the rent here (well, the Boss and I do), and as fond as I am of Hazel, for that's what I find myself calling my eight-legged roommate, I can't have her overstepping. As nice as it is to share personal space with a fellow creature, the level of companionship she provides falls short of being cute or cuddly.

Or am I being too species-centric? What natural law gives me the right to decide where (or whether) a living being should live? I have an advantage in size, and range of motion, and ... oh, there must be something else. But does that mean I have no obligation to step aside and give room to those less fortunate? Might makes right? Didn't we get past that concept, some time in the previous millennium?

Many human beings I meet every day are neither cute nor cuddly, but I don't squash them or spray them or destroy their homes with a feather duster. Live and let live, that's how we cope in a crowded world of limited resources. As long as I get my share, I'm happy to see others getting theirs. If I'll step aside for rude folks walking three abreast on a narrow sidewalk, I shouldn't mind the lesser inconvenience of Hazel webbing it up in an out-of-the-way corner.

Besides, it gives me someone to talk to. She's a good listener, as far as I can tell. At least, she's never interrupted me, even when I'm going on and on about some inane subject that probably doesn't make a lot of sense to her. For now, anyway, there's no reason to do anything I might regret later.

And I can always change my mind tomorrow and use the special attachment on my new vacuum. That is what it's designed for, sad to say.