On Micro-Griefs

Small losses. Chompy. Philip Larkin.

Yesterday, our pet crayfish died. When we got him last year, I'd assumed that maybe he would last three or four months, but he managed to last almost a year and a half despite imperiling himself on several occasions, including two daring, incomprehensible escapes from his tank. This past spring, he also endured a pothole-filled car ride as we moved from one house to another, leaving him splashing around in the car's backseat for what was, in hindsight, an excruciating amount of time. I thought I lost him that night—he seemed shell-shocked from the journey and didn't move much when I finally got him settled in. After a couple of hours, he appeared lifeless, so I unplugged the filter and the heater and put a towel over the tank. But the following morning, Chompy was awake again, snapping his claws, wondering why I put a towel over his view and demanded his food. 

But this past week, his energy had decreased, and I changed his tank water and loaded him up with more food, but he didn't seem as spry and ornery as usual. He spent a longer-than-average time inside his favorite cave, but I assumed he was molting. His color also didn't look great—his bright orange armor now looked more like wet rust, and he had some suspicious black dots on his claws. I was concerned, but not overly so because this creature had proven several times already that he was resilient, possibly indestructible. 

On Friday afternoon, I was relieved to see him out of his cave and perched on top of it, ready to start his day exploring the gravel for his pellets and poop dust. Yesterday morning, he was still perched on top of the cave. Sometimes when I’m in a little bit of a gray mood, I’ll try to talk to him. “Good morning, sir!” I said as I sprinkled a few krill into the tank. He would usually raise his claws and excitedly shove them into his scary monster-looking mouth, but they just bounced off the top of his head. I stuck the net in there and nudged him, but he was gone for good this time. 

I wasn't ready for Chompy to die. In the past few days, there were some difficult tests for my emotional sobriety. I was a little panicky, slightly morose—it was an overall sense of being functionally destabilized that felt like a dress rehearsal for something larger. And when Chompy died, I wondered if there was some sort of celestial moment happening, one that would explain why so many of what I’m guessing would quallify as "micro-griefs" were stockpiling in my life. I'm not ready to talk about it yet because some of them are not my stories to tell, but I will. I have to. Sometimes, not writing about what terrifies me or shakes me up immediately after it happens feels like holding on to a hand grenade. Soon enough, though.

Anyway, back to Chompy. My seven-year-old son, Ozzy, who picked him out with me at the aquarium store last year, took the news much better than I thought he would, mostly because I wasn’t quite sure where he and Chompy stood these days. "He was an okay pet,” was what came out of his mouth but I could tell he felt something. He even offered to help me set up a little burial place for him in the back garden.

Our youngest son, who is four, became hysterical for a few seconds even though he barely acknowledged Chompy. Still, I get it—processing loss is overwhelming at his age.

And, finally, my six-year-old daughter, who considered Chompy her mortal enemy, was, well, not sad at all. Almost gleeful. There is a story behind her reaction, though, and one that I had written about over the summer for Flaming Hydra.

With Chompy's passing, I asked them permission to republish it here. I should add that I didn't need their permission because Flaming Hydra allows all of its writers complete ownership of their work. They’re good like that.

Also–since that story is a little long, I cut out the reading recommendation quote sections for this week but kept the poem and the rundowns. But really quickly, here's what I worked with this week: The Bhagavad Gita (more on this Tuesday) and Calendar of Wisdom (a usual addition). And here's an add-on rec since we're discussing the death of a not-so-beloved pet today: Dirt Nap recently began running essays about that very subject. So check that out. That’s all for this week, here's Chompy.

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Consider the Mexican Mini-Lobster

by A.J. Daulerio

Around this time last year, we introduced a small, ten-gallon fish tank into our home to help our three young children (then all under seven) learn to care for living creatures. I put in a few fish: some colorful tetras, a pleco, a silver catfish, and other low-maintenance “starter” fish to help get them interested. It worked—they loved the fish. And each of our children began to name them. There was one named Pinky. One was Shiny. I think there was a Stripey.

A couple of weeks into settling the tank, I took our oldest boy, age 6, to Fumi’s Tropical Fish in Los Angeles to pick out his own fish. After a quick scan of the tanks, my son zoomed in on one full of “mini lobsters” (Mexican crayfish) and chose the biggest one. I asked the fish person in the store if the mini-lobster would get along with the rest of the tank. She assured me he would and that he usually just hides and feeds on the leftover flakes stuck to the gravel and the fish poop and minds his own business. So we got it, and on the ride home, he thought of a name.

“I’m gonna call him Chompy,” he said. 

When we finally got him home and dumped him into the tank, Chompy crawled into the SpongeBob castle my youngest son had picked out as a decoration and quickly claimed it. The other fish looked worried. You can probably guess what happened next. The following morning, the catfish—a sleek, silvery Pictus with several cool black spots—was decapitated when it attempted to swim close to the castle and much too close to Chompy’s oversized pincers. Chompy ate the rest of the body for an afternoon snack. The tiger barb went a couple of days later. It appeared Chompy had dragged it back to the SpongeBob castle the same way a crocodile would do to an unlucky zebra who’d taken a bad route crossing a river. Within an hour, there was nothing left of Stripey. Chompy had developed a thirst for blood.

Soon after the massacre, my children began to hate Chompy. Especially my daughter, who wished him dead after he took out her tetra. “He killed Pinky!” Even my oldest son had turned on him. He suggested we buy another, larger crayfish to fight Chompy “to the death.” They wanted justice.