Dead Crab Walkin’

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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.

 

 

Our Decapod Crustacean

Posted by Danny

We’ve avoided animals like the plague in our family.  Lisa grew up with a dog that had bad gas.  I with a cat named Bunny who had an identity crisis.  And one day when I was in about 9th grade, I got to see my first X rated event when Reagan, our neighbors tom cat, raped Bunny in our driveway.  I did all I could but I just couldn’t stop him.  She never was the same.

One trick Lisa discovered was to give a kid a token pet to appease them.  Two started out with fish.  Our second phase was to give them something they could hold – a hermit crab.  We didn’t really have a phase 3.

DJ got her first when she was about six or seven.  Stephanie followed several years later.  This year, when shopping near Myrtle Beach, Michelle spotted an enormous cage filled with the nasty boogers.  I bet there were 150 of them – climbing all over the place.  One of them changing his shell so you could see his entire body – something I’d never encountered in my years as a crab owner.

I quickly acquiesced to her request hopeful that this would put off the dog conversation for another six to eight months. 

All three girls decided they had to have one – but I was only bankrolling Michelle’s crustacean.  The other two were on their own.

They stood and stared at the choices.  It was overwhelming, like having to pick out your baby from a lineup of cribs.

These days, the store owners have folks paint the crab shells to make them more appealing to the prospective owners.  Which to choose?  They all seemed perfect in their own little way.

The one with a flower on its shell?  How about Superman?  The fuchsia with neon green stripes looks like a winner.  Personally I liked Goliath – the largest one in the cage.  His legs sprawling down the one limb that spanned the axis of the cage. 

“That ones too big dad.  His pinchers could really hurt.”

I went to the counter to ask who would open the container and fish out our choices.

The stout, grandmotherly checkout clerk informed me that the cage was not locked.  “YOU get it out sir.”  The implication was I ain’t sticking MY hand in there.  I’ve seen what can happen.

“So I just open it and get the ones I want?”

“Yup.”

They decided on their pick:  for Stephanie the bright pink, DJ wanted Spiderman, and Michelle the one with the dainty pink flower.  I mustered up my courage and wound my arm through the hole – watching Goliath with one eye and my own prey with the other.

Stephanie’s was wild – a poor choice she thought.  “I’ve changed my mind daddy.  I want a calmer one.” 

“Me too,” DJ echoed.  “Spiderman looks angry!”

“I don’t like mine either – I think he’s dead.  Look, he’s just sitting there.”

I go in again.  “Are you sure this is it?”  The decision were made.

“They need extra  shells, a sponge and plenty of food” my checkout friend informed.

Yeah, you’re all about helping now aren’t you?  Clearly grandma was working on commission.

On the way out the door, each one made a last-minute swap.  My patience and bravery were about to expire.

In the car Stephanie informed me that her crab and DJ’s were cuddling…or mating.

“Do they really…” DJ didn’t finish her sentence.

I was glad.  I didn’t need to have that conversation with the grandparents in the car.

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