the sad tale of a little spider

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Once upon a time an ickle spider ran across my living room floor. 'Eeep!' I quietly declared. A couple of days later I found the ickle spider sitting dead by the front door. I prodded him. As you do. 'Awww,' I sighed as he unfurled his many legs and gazed up at me sleepily. 'Would you like to go outside?' I enquired. My Qyzen looked at me in astonishment. 'You detest spiders, he said to me. Why on earth are you being so nice to him?' I shrugged. I scooped him up [not with my hands, silly!] and placed him outside the front door. He was an odd looking creature, just sitting there, barely moving and looking so sorry for himself. I spent the next few hours before bed checking on him every so often. He barely moved; he was definitely alive when I pootled to bed. I looked him up online but couldn't find him. He wasn't one of the eight most popular British spiders. Nor was he one of the lesser ones. Maybe he wasn't British. Perhaps he was here on his holybobs and just got lost. Thinking about it, he looked a bit like a tarantula, albeit a tiny baby one. I was going to take a picture of him this morning to show the internet folk, but the little rascal had gone away. Or, he was eaten by a bird. Poor ickle spider. [Why am I starting to like spiders ... they're creepy. But beautiful. Clever. Intelligent. Witty. Graceful. Faster than Usain. As agile as Max. *sigh*]