He is the king of the yard as he runs around, playing with the random toys that are scattered where he last left them. The dogs are a repeated amusement to him but he is most taken with the newest addition, the little unnamed puppy that seeks refuge in a lawn chair lying folded on the ground. A few “nice touches” on her head, a few joyfully babbled words, and he is off to find a new occupation. The red and yellow mini-car is the next adventure. He climbs in and I go around to the other side, intent upon scaring him but failing in every way. Instead, he observes me calmly and I ask if I can get in, despite the fact that age and science are completely against me. Before he is able to respond, I see a spider crawling on the passenger side. I mention it to him and he turns quickly to see it. Even with the quick reflexes, the spider has evaded his gaze and is now on the outside of the car. I expected him to be slightly frightened or disgusted. Rather than running away, he pokes his head out the passenger window, sees the spider, and rapidly smashes it with his little hand. He pulls it away and a leg or two remains squished to the toy. The rest, I now see, is on his hand, parts of it still moving, as if trying to pull life back into itself and resurrect. My reaction of disgust is again different from this little one’s reaction. He nonchalantly brushes the spider guts off his hand and sits back down in the car. “Spiders are ucky.” I laugh in amazement. “Spiders are ucky, Trish. Spiders are ucky.” My little nephew, the spider-slayer.