It’s true, I don’t love animals. I’d like to. I try. And then some dog ends up humping my leg, and I land right back where I was before – one who does not love animals.
They’re cute to look at – sort of like someone else’s baby.
“Oooo. He’s so frickin’ cuuute!”
Then he poops. And he’s not as cute. And he smells like my grandfather after dinner at El Rodeo.
But as much as I am not an animal fanatic, I wish them no harm. If someone else is feeding them and brushing them and paying their vet bills, I’m good. I am perfectly happy to sit by dogs at the outside cafe tables at my local pub. Who doesn’t like to have their crotch sniffed while they eat dinner? Count me in!
That being said, I think I killed our Hermit crab.
I have tried to blame someone else in the family, but I am the responsible adult. I must admit my error.
He, I’d call him by name but I don’t think he had one, was 13 months old. As I washed out his dookie filled aquarium, I have wished him dead. I actually let him crawl around the kitchen counter in the hopes that he would fall to his death. He didn’t. He just sat and watched me scrub.
We left him without food and water when we went to the beach in June. He’s upstairs – out of site, out of mind. He survived that 7 day fast. Two weeks later we left again. But this time, I thought of him. I filled a bowl with H2O and planted his sponge right in the middle. When we returned, I think he’d gained weight.
But the next two weeks were busy. Kids were out of town. Michelle went to camp. I seldom went upstairs – there was no reason.
When I returned from dropping Stephanie at overnight camp today, I took some of her excess stuff back up to her room. When I walked into the bathroom, I spotted him. He was hanging out of his shell. He had crawled up to the sponge. It was dryer than the Atacama Desert. His little claw was perched, open, pointing toward his usual water source.
I haven’t called for an autopsy, but I feel certain the cause of death was dehydration.
I can’t blame DJ. It wasn’t her crab, and she’s been at camp all summer. I emailed Stephanie tonight – I called her a crab murderer. She’s been living upstairs. I know he belonged to Michelle, but for goodness sake. If you walked by a starving Hermit crab, wouldn’t you respond? Wouldn’t you take the time to soak the sponge?
She can’t be blamed. She got her braces off this week. He lived in the bathroom, and the times she was in there she was looking in the mirror, enamored with her beautiful new mouth.
And Michelle? Yes, she should have reminded meto water him in her absence. But who can think of crabs when there are decisions to make about what to wear to the camp dance?
So, that leaves me. I am the one. I killed him.
I feel so guilty.