The Tarantula of Tumbleweed Lane

Agnes, a woman whose internal alarm system was set to "nuclear winter" at the slightest inconvenience, was enjoying a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Her only companion was a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey and a particularly dry scone. Suddenly, a tiny speck, no bigger than a comma in a legal brief, scuttled across her highly polished mahogany coffee table.

"A-A-A-A-A-A-RGH!" Agnes's shriek could have shattered a crystal wine glass from across the street. Her lukewarm tea went flying, followed by the scone, which ricocheted off a framed cross-stitch before landing with a pathetic thud. She scrambled onto the nearest armchair, pulling her feet up so violently she nearly dislocated a hip.

"It's... IT'S A SPIDER! A GIANT, HAIRY TARANTULA! A NEST OF THEM! CALL THE MILITARY!" she wailed, clutching a decorative cushion to her chest as if it were a shield against alien invasion. Her breathing became rapid, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror. The tiny spider, meanwhile, had paused its journey, seemingly bewildered by the cacophony. It was, in fact, a common house spider, barely half an inch across, more interested in dust bunnies than human blood.

Agnes remained perched on the armchair for a full forty-five minutes, occasionally letting out a small, whimpering "Oh, the humanity!" She then, with the bravery of a knight facing a dragon, used a pair of antique fireplace tongs to gingerly pick up a teacup and trap the "beast." It took another hour to convince herself to approach the front door, where she launched the teacup, spider and all, into the neighbor's prize-winning petunias, muttering, "That'll teach you to invade my personal space, you eight-legged fiend!"