Hermit Crab Grief, Two Ways

Godspeed, Skippy Horse. See you on the other side, apparently...

Our tale begins with the arrival of two navel orange-sized hermit crabs in the mail. (Thanks, Nana!) Did you know they could be mailed from Washington? Did you know they could arrive approximately 10 times bigger than those cutesy walnut-sized things in pet stores?

They can, my friends. And they did. About a week and a half to two weeks ago.

One exited his shredded paper filled cup and promptly donated his pincher to P's hand. Ewww.

 Boy Wonder (9) seized upon the opportunity to exercise his right as the oldest and claim the crab that was guaranteed alive. (We hadn't seen the other one yet.)

He named him "Tony Hawk" because with just one good arm, he sorta moved around his house like he was in a constant skateboard move..you know, one arm planted on the ground, the other holding the skateboard high above your head? Yep. Tony Hawk.

The second one was even bigger and took up most of P's man paw. I was pretty sure they had sent us a reanimated dinosaur fossil that contained some sort of dead thing. When the dead thing shot out with long red legs and antennae, I screamed. And Boo (3) promptly named him "Skippy Horse." (Apparently of no relation to "Skippy Money," our Christmas Elf on a Shelf.)

Fast forward a few weeks. The crabs don't do much. Don't eat much. I'm starting to feel like a senior rest home where grandpa hermit crabs go to die when Skippy Horse goes and does just that.

Dies.

Like, hanging half out of his shell with that weird, slimy hind end all exposed and everything...

Naaaasty, ya'll.

And here is where our tales of grief begin.

Boy Wonder shed a tear or seven. Thirty-nine, maybe.

 He talked about whether hermit crabs will be waiting for us in heaven, if he possibly suffered a heart attack when he died, how his terrarium bunk mate might cope without him, and whether Tony Hawk needs counseling.

You should understand that this is the same boy who cried at the Christmas tree recycling center a few years back. He's pretty sensitive....to say the least. He'll still let forth a forlorn sigh from time to time and reminisce on those super special 18 days he had with the crustacean. He's in the current stages of penning a memoir about the experience. "Tony Hawk Shredded My Heart" is the working title.

And then there's Boo.

Boo watched his father remove the deceased crab from the tank. Poked at the weird back-half thing it had going on and managed to take advantage of the impromptu funeral to steal his brother's DS for a glorious few moments.

Three days later, he checks the tank, notices his crab isn't back from whatever vacation he must have gone on and asks me.

"Where's my crab?"

"He died, buddy. A few days ago. Remember?"

He frowns. I'm worried my answer was too...umm...honest?

"Oh," he says, fiddling with the charger of his brother's DS. "Can I have a bike?"