I.

This morning a common cellar spider fell into the scalding water of my shower. Already half-lathered by the time I spotted the pitiful creature failing to scramble up the corner of the tub, I hesitated to intervene lest I do more harm than good. Touching the delicate wet body might be like trying to remove someone from a car after a severe accident. If I took care not to spray or drip any more water on her, she might find a path to safety.

But as the situation progressed, it became clear that her floundering was bound for tragedy. Her frail limbs were collapsing, and I concluded there was nothing to lose by attempting a rescue—except for the obvious possibility that my action might only prolong the creature’s suffering. Perhaps I was only helping myself by gingerly lifting the body from the shower to a dry, sheltered area behind the toilet. Whether I’d saved her precious life or kept her from a welcome end to her earthly troubles, I could rest assured of my own benevolence.

I never remembered to check on her. Either she recovered and scurried away, or I vacuumed up the body while cleaning the house for company.

II.

I’m not in the habit of measuring the duration of spiders’ deaths.

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