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I maintain the conviction that it is always possible to change. My view is you can in fact instruct a veteran learner, on the condition that the old dog is willing and ready for growth. So long as the individual in question is prepared to acknowledge when it was mistaken, and work to become a better dog.

OK yes, the metaphor applies to me. And the skill I am working to acquire, although I am set in my ways? It is an significant challenge, a feat I have grappled with, often, for my all my days. The quest I'm on … to become less scared of those large arachnids. Pardon me, all the different eight-legged creatures that exist; I have to be grounded about my possible growth as a human. The target inevitably is the huntsman because it is imposing, in charge, and the one I encounter most often. This includes a trio of instances in the previous seven days. Within my dwelling. I'm not visible to you, but a shudder runs through me with discomfort as I type.

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

An intense phobia regarding spiders dating back to my youth (as opposed to other children who are fascinated by them). Growing up, I had a sufficient number of brothers around to make sure I never had to handle any myself, but I still freaked out if one was clearly in the general area as me. One incident stands out of one morning when I was eight, my family unconscious, and attempting to manage a spider that had ascended the lounge-room wall. I “managed” with it by retreating to a remote corner, practically in the adjoining space (for fear that it pursued me), and discharging half a bottle of pesticide toward it. It didn’t reach the spider, but it succeeded in affecting and annoy everyone in my house.

In my adult life, my romantic partner at the time or sharing a home with was, by default, the most courageous of spiders in our pairing, and therefore in charge of dealing with it, while I emitted whimpers of distress and ran away. When finding myself alone, my tactic was simply to exit the space, turn off the light and try to erase the memory of its presence before I had to return.

Not long ago, I visited a companion's home where there was a particularly sizable huntsman who lived in the casement, for the most part lingering. As a means to be less fearful, I imagined the spider as a her, a gal, part of the group, just chilling in the sun and eavesdropping on us yap. This may seem rather silly, but it was effective (a little bit). Alternatively, the deliberate resolution to become more fearless did the trick.

Regardless, I've made an effort to continue. I think about all the sensible justifications not to be scared. I am aware huntsman spiders pose no threat to me. I know they consume things like flies and mosquitoes (the bane of my existence). I am cognizant they are one of nature’s beautiful, harmless-to-humans creatures.

Alas, they do continue to walk like that. They travel in the most terrifying and almost unjust way possible. The vision of their multiple limbs carrying them at that frightening pace triggers my primordial instincts to enter panic mode. They are said to only have eight legs, but I am convinced that multiplies when they get going.

However it is no fault of their own that they have scary legs, and they have just as much right to be where I am – if not more. My experience has shown that taking the steps of making an effort to avoid have a visceral panic reaction and flee when I see one, trying to remain calm and collected, and deliberately thinking about their good points, has actually started to help.

Just because they are fuzzy entities that scuttle about with startling speed in a way that haunts my sleep, is no reason for they merit my intense dislike, or my girly screams. I am willing to confess when I’ve been wrong and motivated by unfounded fear. I doubt I’ll ever attain the “scooping one into plasticware and escorting it to the garden” stage, but one can't be sure. Some life is left left in this old dog yet.