Usually within the first little while after making a new acquaintance, something almost identical to this dialogue occurs:
"Hey Camryn! Come look at this cat on the internet!! Isn't it just the cutest thing ever?!?"
"...ehh...I'm not really the biggest fan of cats."
"WHAT? What about this one?? It's in a box! Look at him being all cute in a box!"
"...I'm looking..."
"So are you like a dog person then or something?"
"More so than cats...but not really."
And it is at this point that they stare at me in utter disbelief and begin to question my humanity. But you know what? I'm just not much of a pet person. I mean, I don't mind playing with other people's lovable furballs or renting a puppy every now and again (which, yes, is actually a thing), but as far as owning one myself and having it embed its presence all over the furniture and carpet and AIR THAT I BREATHE INTO MY BODY, no thanks.
I obviously inherited this opinion from my parents, but this didn't stop us from having other varieties of pets throughout the years. In elementary school I got my first pet: a beta fish I affectionately named "Frito." He enjoyed the interior of a fishbowl in my room for two years (despite having to live with such an atrocious name), and when he took his final journey down the porcelain express, I moved on to something more exotic. Something far more exciting:
Hermit crabs.
Yes, those glorious little crustaceans that took the mall kiosk scene by storm a few years ago. It began at my tenth birthday party, when I received two little crabs as a gift from one of my friends: one with a bright orange painted shell, and the other striped with the colors of the rainbow. It didn't take me long to name them: the orange one was clearly much faster and active than his friend, and I affectionately named him "Speedo." Which left me with the other, whose obvious lack of distinctive personality traits left my ten-year-old mind to associate the colors of his shell with Froot Loops and wind up naming him "Frooty."
.........
The next spring, as our family prepared to depart on a week's vacation, I put their bowl in our living room upstairs to hopefully provide some more warmth for them while we were away. I supplied them with extra food, put plenty of water in their sponge, and expected everything to be fine. ONLY IT WASN'T.
A week later, the first thing I did when we got into the house was run upstairs to check on my little beauties. But as I approached the stairs, I was met by a horrific sight: Flash was laying lifeless on the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs, without his shell. I was startled by what appeared to be a bona fide murder scene, running back to my parents and hiding in the kitchen in terror.
Upon further inspection, my parents discovered Flash's shell higher up on the stairs, and that the stick I had in their open-air bowl had been pushed up, forming a bridge right up to the edge allowing their escape.
They also discovered that Peaches was missing.
And we couldn't find him. *full body shiver*
Yes, those glorious little crustaceans that took the mall kiosk scene by storm a few years ago. It began at my tenth birthday party, when I received two little crabs as a gift from one of my friends: one with a bright orange painted shell, and the other striped with the colors of the rainbow. It didn't take me long to name them: the orange one was clearly much faster and active than his friend, and I affectionately named him "Speedo." Which left me with the other, whose obvious lack of distinctive personality traits left my ten-year-old mind to associate the colors of his shell with Froot Loops and wind up naming him "Frooty."
Anyways. I doted on those things constantly. I made sure their water sponge was always dripping, I rearranged the objects in their cage often to achieve hermit crab feng shui, and experimented by feeding them different kinds of cereal, keeping track of their favorites and adjusting accordingly. I also bought, or rather, begged my parents to buy new shells so that my crabs could move into them if they so desired. I always hoped that I'd wake up one morning to either Speedo or Frooty living in a different shell--it would have been the most exciting thing in the world. But unfortunately, it only happened once--Speedo opted for a more natural-looking, mottled brown shell, and I approved wholeheartedly.
A month or so later, not wanting to miss out on this lovely fad, my little brother persuaded my parents to get him a pair of hermit crabs. We came home with a gross one that had grayish, sickly-looking skin and a bright red and orange swirled shell (which he named "Peaches"), and an ALBINO crab in a long, pointy, metallic blue shell (subsequently named "Flash"). They were put into the cage with Speedo and Frooty and became one happy, diverse family. It was quite beautiful, really.
A month or so later, not wanting to miss out on this lovely fad, my little brother persuaded my parents to get him a pair of hermit crabs. We came home with a gross one that had grayish, sickly-looking skin and a bright red and orange swirled shell (which he named "Peaches"), and an ALBINO crab in a long, pointy, metallic blue shell (subsequently named "Flash"). They were put into the cage with Speedo and Frooty and became one happy, diverse family. It was quite beautiful, really.
The next spring, as our family prepared to depart on a week's vacation, I put their bowl in our living room upstairs to hopefully provide some more warmth for them while we were away. I supplied them with extra food, put plenty of water in their sponge, and expected everything to be fine. ONLY IT WASN'T.
A week later, the first thing I did when we got into the house was run upstairs to check on my little beauties. But as I approached the stairs, I was met by a horrific sight: Flash was laying lifeless on the tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs, without his shell. I was startled by what appeared to be a bona fide murder scene, running back to my parents and hiding in the kitchen in terror.
Upon further inspection, my parents discovered Flash's shell higher up on the stairs, and that the stick I had in their open-air bowl had been pushed up, forming a bridge right up to the edge allowing their escape.
They also discovered that Peaches was missing.
And we couldn't find him. *full body shiver*
After this traumatic experience, I started being wary of Speedo and Frooty. Things just weren't the same. And the day that Frooty came out of his shell while I was bathing them, I knew it was over.
Have you ever seen what the tail-end of a hermit crab looks like? If not, CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY. It's DISGUSTING. It's gooey and slimy and squishy and it looks like a creepy, pulsing organ. I'd include a link to a picture of one, but it's just too revolting and I wouldn't want to do that to you. I'm getting goosebumps even as I write this very sentence. (...That might be because my window is open, but let's just forget that).
Yes, the day Frooty exposed himself and succeeded in scaring me out of my eleven-year-old mind was the day I decided I was done. I was just done. So I stopped feeding them, and eventually they died.
Yes, I am a horrible person. But wait, the story gets better.
About a month later, my little brother dropped a piece of gum behind his dresser and stuck his hand down behind it to grab it. Only he grabbed something else instead: THE DEAD BODY OF PEACHES. It had somehow managed to crawl out of the bowl upstairs, successfully travel down the stairs, through the hallway, around the corner, and into my brother's room--choosing a cozy spot behind the dresser to take his final, tiny crab breath. But I've got to say, the fact that he got so far is still pretty impressive...I'm sorry I ever thought you were ugly, Peaches.
So there. That is why I'm not a pet person. I'm sorry. And when I say "I'm sorry," what I'm really saying is "I don't care."
I do what I want.
But here is a picture of a hermit crab I drew in an attempt to make up for my inhumanity:
Yes, the day Frooty exposed himself and succeeded in scaring me out of my eleven-year-old mind was the day I decided I was done. I was just done. So I stopped feeding them, and eventually they died.
Yes, I am a horrible person. But wait, the story gets better.
About a month later, my little brother dropped a piece of gum behind his dresser and stuck his hand down behind it to grab it. Only he grabbed something else instead: THE DEAD BODY OF PEACHES. It had somehow managed to crawl out of the bowl upstairs, successfully travel down the stairs, through the hallway, around the corner, and into my brother's room--choosing a cozy spot behind the dresser to take his final, tiny crab breath. But I've got to say, the fact that he got so far is still pretty impressive...I'm sorry I ever thought you were ugly, Peaches.
So there. That is why I'm not a pet person. I'm sorry. And when I say "I'm sorry," what I'm really saying is "I don't care."
I do what I want.
But here is a picture of a hermit crab I drew in an attempt to make up for my inhumanity:
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