A Household Word: The Living Dead






This past summer, we visited one of those touristy shops and I broke down and bought my son a hermit crab. For Lewis, part of the appeal was that the crab’s shell was painted with the logo of the Boston Red Sox, his favorite baseball team. For me, the hermit crab seemed like a good alternative to more complex life forms like geckos, guinea pigs and iguanas.


“His name is Bruce,” my son said lovingly as the crab clamped onto his finger and drew blood. “I think he likes me!”


On the ride home, Lewis sat in the backseat with a cardboard container on his lap and cooed to Bruce through the air holes.


“Why are you talking to that crab, you moron,” Lewis’ teenage sister said. “Crabs can’t hear you, and even if they could they don’t even have brains. They’re like lobsters. I think we should cook him.”


“Don’t listen to her, Brucey,” my son hissed into the box. “She’s just jealous.”


Home Sweet Home


At home we found an old 10-gallon aquarium – one that is haunted by the ghosts of deceased goldfish and long-dead gerbils – and  transferred Bruce to his permanent digs.


“Bruce needs a more interesting habitat,” my son said as he proceeded to arrange Lego® guys and plastic dinosaurs in the tank. The crab seemed unimpressed. At the store, he had been one of the more lively of his species, but here, amid a T-rex and sword-wielding pirates, he was rather lethargic.


“Maybe he’s just tired from the long drive,” I suggested.


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