This morning my daughter realized that her “beloved” pet Hermy was dead. I can’t say he died with much dignity. She found him naked in the middle of his cage, a few inches from his old shell, and nowhere near his spare, bigger shell that we thought maybe he would switch to someday.
Funny thing about this is I just asked her yesterday how her pal Hermy was doing, and her very paused response told me that yet again she forgot all about the poor bastard. This is the same child who literally begs us every single summer to get her a new hermit crab or two when we go to Fantasy Island in LBI. Every year I cringe when my husband and daughter happily stroll into the shop to make her yearly purchase. I know how it’ll end for the little innocent creature(s) she brings home, but nobody ever listens to me…I do need to mention that we did not buy her Hermy. She conned her grandparents into it one night when they were watching her. Mama didn’t raise no dummy.
Anyway, Hermy is officially the 12th hermit crab taken down by “The Hermit Crab Slayer” (What we affectionately call our daughter.) It always starts out great. She will give him (It’s always a him for some reason) some well thought out name, take fantastic care of him for about a week, and then it’s all downhill. The other 11 that she has owned didn’t make it very far past 2 weeks…maybe a month tops. This one went the distance in our house.
Thus today marked the end for our pal Hermy. (Technically he could have been dead for about a week, and my daughter just didn’t notice, but for all intents and purposes we will just stick with today.) I salute you Hermy…you almost made it a full 6 months…key word being almost. Unfortunately almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, so you will be joining the other 11 in our hermit crab cemetery, otherwise known as the spot to the right of the rose bushes in our yard. Ya did good kid. Well, ya did better than the other 11, at least…