On a Claw and a Prayer

To begin, let me clarify: Dave the Crab is not Jesus. Dave hasn’t purged any sins. He hasn’t clothed the naked or fed the hungry, nor has he healed the sick. He hasn’t done a thing for my peeling fingertips.

But today Dave rose from the dead. I swear to...well, I swear.

This morning, I emailed a few friends: Dave had gone to the big terrarium in the sky. If you didn’t receive the email, not to worry -- I just didn’t want you to know my attachment. Getting weepy over a dog or cat, that’s one thing. A canary or gerbil could be “dearly departed,” I guess. But a hermit crab?

Remember the “Cosby Show” episode where Dr. Huxtable holds a funeral for Rudy’s goldfish? Touching, sure (I mean, it is “The Cosby Show”), but also a tad silly. And then there’s the fact that Rudy was 5 in that ep (way, way before the “Rudy Gets Her Period” episode...shark jumping, anyone?). I’m two decades older -- wiser, not sadder.

Only I was sad. Dave has been with me since March. When I offered to take him (and Connick, RIP) off the hands of the Highlights toy department, I figured he’d last two months, maximum. Dave lacked goodwill from the start (another reason he’s not Christ. I wouldn‘t describe Christ as “surly.”). He escaped his shipping crate while I was editing a manuscript, and it took me, Mary, and Joelle at least 30 minutes on hands and knees to locate him. In the meantime, Connick watched patiently from a desktop. Connick: the good seed.

I plucked Dave off the floor, and he clamped down on my thumb. Left a purple mark. I contemplated offering him to the next fourth-grade tour group, or serving him with butter. Zoot alors, what a loss...here we go, in zee sauce!

Dave knew I didn’t like him much. While Connick frolicked amongst the plastic palm trees, Dave sulked in his fake-shale cave. Every time I took the crabs out to “exercise,” Dave ran away. More searching, more carpet burns. “Look, man,” Connick waved his antennae. “Can we get rid of this guy?”

Then, affer a month or so, Connick switched shells. I mean, with Professor Coldheart as a roommate, he had nothing better to do. The new shell must have been an upgrade -- like trading a Sentra for a Jaguar. The Sentra was nice and everything, but the Jag...wow. Forget Dave. Let’s ride spinnaz, baby!

Dave stayed in his Volvo. After awhile, I kind of felt sorry for him. I’m not much of a risk-taker, either. It wasn’t a risk moving to Charlottesville; I had no choice. Living with your parents at age 25 is only romantic in indie movies -- the kind that star Hope Davis and that guy from Sideways. Paul Giamatti. I drink Merlot, and I’m too self-conscious to wear my cat-eye glasses. “That’s okay, Dave,” I thought. “I understand.”

If Connick had been at all familiar with the “tortoise and hare” fable, he would have kept his old shell. Slow and steady wins the race. Fast and impulsive, better luck next time.

Connick’s “next times” ended right after the New Orleans move. Only a heartless bastard would say “I told you so.” I’ll just note that I’m sticking with the Merlot.

We grieved a bit after the ceremonial flushing, but things got better. Despite Lizzie’s googly-eye/plastic mouse ear get-up, she’s really an introvert. When she moved in, Dave emerged from the cave. He stopped pulling the Todd Bridges act. Dare I say it? He was born again.

Now, though, he’s sick. A couple of days ago, I found an unattached crab leg a few inches from the cave. Lizzie still has all of her limbs. According to this link, we‘re going to need a prayer:

http://www.hermit-crabs.com/FAQ.html

And I thought the New Orleans move was stressful for me. If Dave sheds another foot, the eulogy will be forthcoming.

He didn’t move at all yesterday. Lizzie brushed him with her antenna. I poked his claws with my finger. C’mon, Dave...you always enjoy a good fight. Nothing. I placed him outside the cave overnight. He didn’t crawl back to his favorite corner. That’s it, then. Dave’s gone.

Good thing I didn’t bury him. I’m pretty sure the resurrection wouldn’t have happened if he had to roll back a stone or dig himself from under a shrub. He’s not omnipotent. I left him in the middle of the terrarium around 11:00 (ever hopeful), and...lo and behold...at 2 or 3 I found him perched on the water dish. Who said miracles don’t happen in suburbia?

At the time of this post, Dave is still alive, but I’m not confident he’ll last through the night. We’ve cashed in a lot of our blessings, Dave and I. We made it out of the Big Easy; we got a courtesy week at the Best Western; we found an apartment and gainful studentship (well, I did, anyway. Dave mostly eats peanut butter all day.) Our cup runneth over -- and the water dish runneth, too.

So, instead of asking for more “deus ex crab cove,” I’m going to get a handle on my anxiety. Set a good example for Dave. No more psychosomatic stressors. No more waistline or white-tooth envy (at least not this week). We know His eye is on the sparrow. We hope it's on the crustacean, and, once in a while (when I'm behaving) me.