This past Christmas - at about 7pm Christmas night - my son decided that he wanted a hermit crab. I went out the next day, armed with my ten year old niece (who has to have a sign on her forehead that says "SUCKER!" that the salespeople see the second we come within a ten meter radius of the pet store), to see if we could find one.
Find one we did. My son arrived on the 27th and spent the day playing his nintendo in front of "Pinch-Pinch".
Within three weeks the blasted thing had died - namely because the sales person failed to tell us that a hermit crab is actually NOT low maintenance. He suggested we put some Hot Wheels in the crabitat. Hot Wheels? Really? Hermit crabs take to metal the way dogs take to chocolate.
Off we went and replaced Pinch Pinch with three new hermit crabs, which were named CocaCola, StayPuff and PeekaBoo.
StayPuff lasted three weeks. (Seeing a pattern here?). Instead of telling my son that his second crab was dead, we pretended that PeekaBoo (the one without an owner) had fallen off the log to his death, and simply renamed him StayPuff.
Last night, right at bedtime, as we went to spritz the crabitat, we noticed that CocaCola had met his untimely demise. My niece - who turns eleven in a matter of weeks - is devastated.
I am mostly just grossed out, because when I picked up the shell to send him off to the crabitat in the sky, his carcass slipped out of the shell and landed on my arm. I swear I felt him wriggle around. My son, of course, thought that this was hilarious and will no doubt say to me, at random intervals, over the next ten years, "Remember that time when the dead crab landed on your arm and started wriggling around? Ahahahahaha!"
Crabs: 1; Good intentioned mama: 0.