Seafaring snail dudes summer at the Cape

I’ve had many pets in my life: three dogs, one parrot, two chickens, one rabbit, one cat and several fish.

Much to BB’s consternation, all she’s had is one dog who died when she was two.

She’s desperate for a pet.

The family decision is that two years from now, when all our extra money isn’t going toward pre-k or kindergarten, we’ll get a dog.

Two years is a long time. BB found me in the kitchen and presented a large caterpillar.

“I’m keeping him for a pet.”

If by keeping him, you mean keeping him outside.

Then yesterday she fell in love with two garden snails: Swirly and Speedy. She begged and begged and begged to keep them.

Speedy is not a name you might expect for a snail, but Speedy has proven themselves worthy.

Speedy prefers they/them pronouns considering they’re hermaphroditic. Put any two snails together and you can get baby snails. Or so says Google. Yes I’ve been doing my snail research.

I haven’t seen any snail hanky panky yet, but there’s still time.

BB presented her sand pail with her snails and pleaded her case. My initial reaction was,

Absolutely not! They belong in the wild and we’re not buying a terrarium.

Then it turned out we already had a terrarium, with dirt in it nonetheless. It became impossible to say no.

Next thing I knew I was cutting up strawberries for Swirly and Speedy and misting their habitat with water.

I wouldn’t think twice about them out in the wild, but now I fear for their life. I would like to say no pet snail has ever died on my watch.

And that’s why we’ll be releasing them in a week.

It’s either that or take them sailing to Martha’s Vineyard.

As excited as my in-laws would be for us to show up on their boat with the addition of a terrarium, I’m not convinced these are seafaring snails.

Don’t even talk to me about looking into snail-sitting.

If Swirly and Speedy want to stay close by, then maybe we’ll see them again. If not, I wish them the best and pray for whatever new wild animal BB gets her hands on next.

There really are a lot of great snail images. It was hard to choose.

The class fish is home for the summer

BB’s class fish is staring at me. We’re calling him Fishy-wishy. Formerly known at Flippy.

Back in September there was a class vote to name their two fish. BB had her heart set on Fishy-wishy. I don’t know if she’d spell it with a hyphen, but considering Fishy-wishy depends on me for food now, I’ll punctuate at will.

The two fish were named Flipper and Flippy. Flipper didn’t make it. Tough school year for anybody. Flippy did.

A group text went out to the pre-k families:

“Who wants Flippy for the summer?! We promise not to hold you accountable if the worst should happen.”

YES! We have no dog, no cat, no bunny, no chickens, some bugs (uncontained), some mice (very elusive), why not a fish?

And as always, the gloriousness of Captain working right next to the kitchen is that I can burst in unannounced anytime a text moves me.

“Read this! Should we take the fish?!”

“Do we know what’s involved with taking care of a goldfish? I’d figure that out first. Maybe call a pet store?”

Sigh. Of course he’d recommend research. Google is not promising. Looks like more effort than I’m interested in.

At pick-up I ask BB’s teacher,

“What’s involved with taking care of the goldfish?”

“Oh it’s not a goldfish! It’s a tiny little thing. I feed it and change the water a couple times a month.”

“I can do that!”

BB is not sold. She asks,

“What happens if he dies?”

“We’ll bury him in the backyard or flush him down the toilet.”

“I don’t want Flippy.”

Bad time for dead-fish jokes. I backpedal,

“He could die on anyone’s watch. We might as well enjoy him while we can.”

By the time Fishy-wishy comes home, BB is ready for him to sleep with her.

I insist that he needs to live next to the coffee maker. Things that are in the kitchen are more likely to get fed on a regular basis.

Before this I would’ve said a fish is the last pet I’m interested in. That may still be true, but faced with no pets and a limited two-month engagement, maybe shorter, Fishy-wishy was irresistible.

I may also be holding on to all things pre-k. Where’d baby BB go? She’s DESPERATE to be five. On the playground she informs a random kid,

“I’m four and three quarters, but I wear size five clothes.”

She “graduates” today and last day is tomorrow. Fishy-wishy, formerly known as Flippy, came home yesterday. BB says,

“If anyone from Fishy-wishy’s old life is around, we’ll call him Flippy.”

Last night, as I prep this morning’s coffee, Fishy-wishy stares at me. I stare at him. Is he happy? Does he mind being all alone? Is this small container humane treatment of a fish?

What is going on with me? I expected to be: Fish is alive? Good. Fish is dead? Move on.

I really REALLY didn’t expect to be consumed with personifying Fishy-wishy. But here he is, staring at me while I try to write and I can’t help but ponder his quality of life.

He gets to spend his summer at the beach, watching us eat his brethren, so maybe he’ll just be grateful to be alive. As long as that may last.