Published: August 13, 2008 11:16 am         

Musings: Tales from the Crypt

Every once in a while something so incredible happens you don’t need to pretty it up with fancy words. As I love to pretty things up with fancy words about as much as I love to eat chocolate, this doesn’t happen to me very often.

But last week it did. And so, I’m just going to say it.

Crabby is still alive.

Yep, it’s true. The hermit crab to whom I bid farewell last week has made a triumphant return to the land of the living.

Here’s what went down.

Tuesday night — Taylor comes outside in a panic.

“Sebastian ate Crabby. Eeeeww. Lexi doesn’t know what’s going on. (gag, gag) I’m not telling her and I’m not going back in there. It is soooo disgusting.” She finished off with a full body shudder.

Of course, I am elected to go inside and deal with it, because, as I’ve already chronicled, my big, tough, manly man husband can be a bit squeamish. Or so he says while he gets to sit outside with our friends on the deck and I get to go pick up crab parts.

Lexi and my little cousin Ashley are agog at the spectacle — hugging each other, their faces pressed to the glass aquarium — when I walk into the room.

“Oh Allison!” Lexi wails, clasping Ashley tighter. “I don’t know what happened. Poor Crabby! Poor, poor Crabby.”

I bend in for a closer look and flinch. Crabby’s small, battered shell is upside down. A claw, his eye and several legs are scattered and broken around him. I pick up the shell and his other claw dangles lifelessly. Sebastian is lurking menacingly in the corner.

The crab is dead, right? RIGHT?

Automatically offering words of comfort and tipoeing around the cause of Crabby’s demise, I drop his remains into a plastic sandwich bag and walk back outside. As it’s already dark, I put the sandwich bag on the ground, cover it with a plastic cat bowl, then slide it all under the deck.

“We’ll have Crabby a funeral tomorrow,” I tell Lexi.

Next two days — It rains. And rains some more. Crabby’s memorial service gets pushed to the back of our minds.

Friday — I remind Tommy to bury the crab.

Sunday — We’ve just finished eating a big family meal outside, when Tommy nonchalantly strolls off to find a shovel. He returns moments later and drags the bowl from under the deck.

“Eeeew Dad,” Taylor squeals. “Have you still not buried Crabby? I can’t look. Uuuggghh. I hate crabs.”

Lexi looks at her reproachfully.

“It’s just Crabby, Taylor,” she huffs, crossing her arms.

In the midst of the squabbling, I look over to see Tommy wearing a perplexed expression and holding the plastic bag aloft.

“Tommy!” I admonish. “Put that down. You know Lexi loves that crab.”

“Umm, are you sure Crabby died?” he asks, still staring weirdly at the bag.

Glaring at him, I cross my arms.

“Stop being silly. Of course I’m sure Crabby died. Now quit kidding around. You’re going to upset Lexi.”

The girls stop arguing, curious.

He pauses, unsure how to proceed.

“Well, you may want to come here. Because, he’s not dead.”

Exasperated now, I throw up my hands.

“It’s not the time to joke,” I plead. “Please, please stop it.”

“I’m not joking.” He climbs onto the porch, ignoring Taylor’s protests. “Look, he just moved.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out the shell. He sticks it near my face, and I close my eyes and brace for the overwhelming stench of dead crab in the hot sun for five days.

Strangely, it doesn’t come.

Cautiously, I open my eyes and peer into the depths of Crabby’s shell. And, oh-so-slowly, he starts to emerge.

I credit more than 10 years worth of professional journalism for keeping my cool in that instant. Because, I’m telling you, my heart broke free inside my body and started running wild — banging into my ribcage and flailing around like a chicken with its head cut off.

But I didn’t even gasp.

In fact, I was calm and collected as I reached out my hand.

“Well, I guess he’s pretty thirsty then.”

And without further ado, I took him inside and deposited him in his cage.

Now, it gets odd.

Upon closer inspection, Crabby’s legs, claw and eye have all started growing back. And, he appears to have a new lease on life — scuttling vigorously around his temporary cage, climbing atop the hermie hut and, at one point, dangling from the plastic palm tree with his good claw.

I shoe swear I’m still telling the truth.

Internet research indicates this is not unheard of. Here’s what I’ve pieced together: Apparently Crabby and Sebastian got into a fight, possibly over a perceived shortage of available shells. Crabby dropped his appendages in an attempt to escape his much bigger (and meaner) new best friend. He retreated into his shell, but the shock of the fight and the loss of limbs forced him into early molting.

Upon his premature entombment, the continuous rain running through a small hole in the cat bowl allowed the plastic bag to sweat, providing Crabby with plenty of moisture. The bag wasn’t sealed, so he could breathe. And finally, I’d pushed him into the shade, protecting him from the unbearable heat.

He emerged from his week at the makeshift spa rested, refreshed and rejuvenated — quite literally a new crab.

I know it’s hard, but believe it.



• • •

And now it’s time for me to bid you, dear readers, goodbye. I’m leaving the Sentinel to work in the family business — my parents are graciously giving me an opportunity too good to pass up.

Thank you for letting me into your homes, your churches, your places of employment and, in some cases, your hearts. But most of all, thank you for your stories.

You, dear readers, are the backbone of this newspaper and the pulse of this community.

I will miss sharing our lives on these pages.