The Sanctity of Life Is a Sliding Scale
The other day, there was a spider in the shower, and it was black and a little larger than normal. I panicked and washed it down the drain, after which I felt sort of guilty about it. The spider was just chilling in the shower, after all. It wasn't waiting there with malevolent intent. Odds are it had wandered in there and didn't even know how to wander out; therefore, it couldn't really be faulted for being in there at all. Most times, I try to escort spiders outside when I discover them, but I was naked and feeling vulnerable, so this one had to die. I know it's just a spider, but I don't really like what that incident says about me, necessarily. It says that when it's inconvenient for me to do the right thing, my emotional reaction will reign supreme and I will act selfishly. Nobody likes having ugly aspects of themselves revealed by an act as seemingly trivial as killing a spider, least of all me.
Today, I get into the shower again, only to find four ants crawling around in there. Without a second thought, or even one thought, for that matter, it was, "Time for you sonsabitches to take a swim!" and I spend a good two-three minutes dutifully sending them all to their watery graves. I don't feel the least bit sorry for those three-segmented jerks.
So, if you want were curious about where my basic respect for life ended, it's with ants. If ants come into my house, they die. No amnesty, no second chance: one strike and you are out, ants.
Also: spiders who are larger than, say, a hamburger. Death is certain, my giant eight-legged chums.
