Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Spiders, Dogs and Other Scary Things

The world is full of scary things. When I was little, just about the scariest things in the world were spiders, dogs and looking foolish. Since I lived in the middle of a jungle, that fear of spiders was fairly inconvenient.

One summer, a Canadian ornithologist was traveling through our area and let my brother and me tag along on some of her outings. To me, all of the birds in our corner of the jungle were just birds. Our visitor saw each one as a little world to be explored. Once she learned of my fear of spiders, she bought me a book about spider species and took me on special spider-sighting field trips. As I learned about spiders, the fear was replaced by respect and eventually by Frederick, my pet tarantula.

Then there were dogs. Always leery of them, I developed a paralyzing fear after being bitten at age 11. The physical scar earned me tough-girl bragging rights that belied the inner panic left from the experience (granted, it was later reinforced by another toothy encounter of the canine kind when I was 13, but I still maintain that my brother was partially at fault for that one. I understand his story differs somewhat from mine.)

Eventually - many years later - I had Goofy Pooch. She sparked love and affection, but the venerable GP was a special charmer and it seemed likely that my fear was simply abated, not cured.

Recently, Eldest Son’s adolescent mastiff came to stay with me while her family was on vacation. Maggie is an enormous dog with impressive drooling skills. She counter-surfs with her chin on the counter. When my water heater blew and the plumber came to replace it, I put Maggie in one of the bedrooms: not for fear that she would eat the helpful gentleman, but that in her desire to see what he was doing, she might drool on him. Given that the anatomy most available to Maggie – and her slobber – would have been the plumber’s backside, you can see why I felt it best to avert the situation from the get-go.

After the heater was replaced, I pulled up the carpet in order to speed up the drying process. Some twenty minutes later, I heard “shuuup... shuuup... shuppppp”. Maggie the mastiff was trying to quietly pull up the soaked padding and suck the water out. “Margaret Ann!” I yelled, with all due respect to Margaret Anns worldwide, and Maggie immediately panicked and tried to hide behind my recliner. (When Maggie was good, I called her “Maggie Lou.” I have no idea why.)

A night or two later, I was lying on the couch watching TV and scratching Maggie’s ears. Overcome with pleasure, she slid into a puddle of dog on the floor. Then her ears twitched. Her back arched. Every muscle quivered. In an explosion, Maggie the pony-sized puppy leapt into the air, twisting about to tower over me, teeth bared, the ever-present slobber dripping – and lunged with a ferocious-sounding growl. I tapped her nose and said, “No, Maggie.” Disappointed, she went to play with her rawhide bone and I went back to my movie.

Before the next commercial, it dawned on me. I had not been afraid.

And that’s when I began to understand the real lesson from that summer long ago. The fact is that the jungle spiders were far less of a real threat to me than was my sister’s temperamental parrot, Captain Hook. My fear was based on my perception – not their reality.

I’m coming to see that the same holds true for most fears. What we can imagine is usually so much worse than what actually is; and the more alien something is to us, the more likely we are to imagine the worst.

That leaves only one last childhood fear. And I’d discuss my efforts in that regard but you might think me foolish.