chakh le ho chakh le ye raat shahad hai chakh le.

My siblings have a pet spider named Peter, who lives in the bathroom window. They don't feed him or anything, so Peter has to fend for himself, but he's still getting a good deal out of this adoption—for a spider, his permanent home in the shower must be a pretty sweet place to live. He's indoors during rough weather. He can bask in the sun or crawl into the shade. The window provides an endless supply of flies. He's safe from any kind of predator, because even the cats can't jump that high, and the ban on web smashing means all he has to do is maintenance work, unlike wild spiders who must constantly rebuild. He sometimes expands his web, I guess when the mood strikes him. He also gets an excellent view of my parent's landscaped front yard, though I don't know if he notices or cares about that.

Peter lives a life of spider leisure.

This means I have to wash my hair with that thing about seven inches in front of my face.

I've probably mentioned him before, but now he's becoming alarmingly permanent, and I thought he was dead this morning, until I was reminded that spiders shed their exoskeleton when they grow. He's not a small spider anymore. Killing Peter was of course never an option—I've never intentionally killed a thing in my life and I'm not going to start with my kid sister's adored pet—but now I don't think I'll ever be able to move him outside.