knee-jerk poisons

Yesterday, while sitting on the porch, I killed what looked every bit to be a brown recluse spider, a spunky critter about two inches from leg-tip to leg-tip. The brown recluse has a toxic venom, but the fact is that

my superficial knowledge of its dangerousness sent my mind into an overdrive that credited itself and discredited the critter. Although I decline knee-jerk proscriptions against killing since killing is a verifiable piece of my potential, still I dislike doing it if I can help it.

I killed a brown recluse spider. I take the responsibility. And I feel quite ashamed of myself.

I noticed the spider when I reached into a plastic recycling box that was partially filled with old newspapers. I was looking for a particular section of an old newspaper ... and the spider popped out. The spider was trapped by the slick sides of the box and made no move to attack my outstretched hand, but its appearance startled me and my mind raced to the danger it might pose not just to me, but to other family members who might sit on the porch. Toxic ... danger ... kill it! And I did. And am ashamed. It would have taken little effort to pick up the whole box, step out the door and shoo the critter into the grass. Instead, I allowed my jumpy, self-centered, superficial understanding to rule the roost. No one else may care, but I care.

USS Indianapolis 1937

It reminded me of those who kill sharks because the fish might upset the delights of summer swimming ... or kill sharks because of the feeding frenzy that contributed to the horrific demise of some 600 sailors after the torpedo-sinking of the American cruiser Indianapolis on July 30, 1945: The only good shark is a dead shark.

My needs and desires and fears are more important than those of a shark ... or a brown recluse spider. Why? Because I say so.

I have a feeling that the toxin injected by my action may prove salutary ... I will do what I can not to repeat my action. But that doesn't change the current pain of the poison.