It's a peaceful Sunday morning at the UZ. All of the critters have been fed their morning meals and at the moment, all are taking their morning naps. This is one of my favorite times of the day-- cup of coffee nearby, TV morning news providing a little background sound and the anticipation of what's ahead for the day.
This past week, there was some excitement in our town regarding urban chickens and I stepped forward with other chicken enthusiasts to speak out for all who have had city chickens but have had to hide in the "chicken closet." Amazingly, we made a difference and now the birds are allowed in town (for the moment) under the pretense that they are considered a "pet." Speaking out in front of city officials was something that I had never done before and I was shocked that several of us speaking about how beneficial the birds are and how much they mean to us caused the Board of Zoning Appeals to rethink their original decision of now allowing them. I can't say how much of a relief it is now that I don't have to hide my excitement for owning these unique creatures!
I'm pretty sure that I've been driving people nuts with my telling and re-telling of my experience that evening with the BZA and I had to laugh when one person told me I was a Tree Hugger. At first, I thought "No, that's impossible." Tree Huggers, in my opinion, were people that dressed in knit caps and cool looking leggings. People who shop at Whole Foods and play guitars. People who recycle everything and stand up for causes... wait, hey, those last two things described me! I quickly changed my doubting attitude that being a "Tree Hugger" was a bad thing and embraced the title.
I don't like "fitting the mold" that everyone follows-- I do enjoy being different and putting my own touch on things. It's why when it came time to building the coop, I swore that it had to be one that was purple and screamed that it belonged to just me! It's why I have empty beer bottles, in many different colors, repurposed as a tree ring in the backyard. It's why, when trash/recycle day comes, I have so much more in my recycle toter than my trash.
No, I'm not an extremist Tree Hugger but I am a Tree Hugger in the way that I love my different life and embracing the uniqueness that it brings in trying to make the world a better place. In my own opinion, I can't imagine following the same path that others do. I love that I don't have matching dogs, that each of the pets in my house came with such great stories for how they came to live with me. Each of us is unique and I encourage all to embrace that uniqueness. Who cares what others think?!
Yes, I'm also a little bit of a realist and I know this is easier said than done, but if you want chickens as pets, or something else that isn't "normal", I say "Why not?!" Be prepared for those who will try to fight you and change your mind. Stand true and in the end you will love yourself and your world more than you thought possible.
Just another day at the Urban Zoo...
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Friday, August 21, 2015
Shell of a Summer
It's been busy around the Urban Zoo lately. Everything is in a state of just beginning or wrapping up in the final days of summer and I'm never at a loss for something to do. In fact, I'm almost overwhelmed by everything that's happening.
As many of you have already gathered, I have a very small flock in my backyard this summer. The ladies have names; Gertrude, Mildred, Eleanor, and Henrietta. Three of the hens are Buff Orphingtons (Gertrude, Mildred and Eleanor) and Henrietta is my Araucana layer. The Buffs are supposed to lay brown eggs and the Araucana is commonly referred to as the "Easter Egg" chicken. Her eggs are different hues of greens and blues.
I've been raising these little feathered wonders since they were about 2 days old. When they arrived, they were the cutest little puffballs of downy feathers and made the cute little "peep peep" that all little newly hatched chickens make. I was so concerned about keeping the temperature correct, the waterer clean and fresh food constantly available. We experienced a colder than normal winter this past year and on the nights when it was minus 2 and 3 degrees, I found comfort that the little babies were nice and toasty warm under their infrared light with nice soft pine bedding and each other to keep themselves warm.
Baby Araucana
Figuring out the gables and how the roof
Finished coop!
Free ranging urban chickens
The remains of the first egg before Gracie completely destroyed it
Henrietta's 2nd, Perfect, Egg
As many of you have already gathered, I have a very small flock in my backyard this summer. The ladies have names; Gertrude, Mildred, Eleanor, and Henrietta. Three of the hens are Buff Orphingtons (Gertrude, Mildred and Eleanor) and Henrietta is my Araucana layer. The Buffs are supposed to lay brown eggs and the Araucana is commonly referred to as the "Easter Egg" chicken. Her eggs are different hues of greens and blues.
I've been raising these little feathered wonders since they were about 2 days old. When they arrived, they were the cutest little puffballs of downy feathers and made the cute little "peep peep" that all little newly hatched chickens make. I was so concerned about keeping the temperature correct, the waterer clean and fresh food constantly available. We experienced a colder than normal winter this past year and on the nights when it was minus 2 and 3 degrees, I found comfort that the little babies were nice and toasty warm under their infrared light with nice soft pine bedding and each other to keep themselves warm.
Baby Araucana
I watched the little birds grow, shedding their downy fluff for more chicken-like feathers and then filling out to look more like young chickens than little puffballs. I took on the crazy task of wanting to build a chicken coop by myself and I can't believe that I'm able to say-- I actually did it!
Building a chicken coop was a little more complicated than I thought; having never built anything before and my only construction experience being the occasional nailing of two boards together or the ever exciting pre-fab furniture assembly instructions. I started with four 2 x 4's, built a simple base and then just went from there.
Figuring out the gables and how the roof
was going to go
Enclosing the place for the nesting boxes and sleeping quarters
Finished coop!
Move in day for the hens was a little nerve wracking at first. I did manage to get poultry bands on the Buff Orphingtons that first day, since all of them looked so much alike, and I banded them with their names as follows; Gertrude, pink band, Mildred, blue band, Eleanor, purple band.
The evenings had still been very cool and I knew that the young chickens would need at least a few nights with the infrared light to help transition them from their warm place in the house to the great outdoors. I ran an extension cord from an outdoor power outlet to the coop, turned on the light and, like any new mother, checked on the hens every hour that first night.
In the morning, I went out to check on the little birds and found that the light bulb in the fixture had burned out through the night. Highly concerned, but undaunted, I quickly asked another friend who also had young birds about the lack of light and he assured me that the young chickens would be fine without the light now. It also helped that the next few evenings were well into the 60's.
I think it was about 2 weeks before I let the young ladies explore the backyard for the first time and it was so wonderful to see them stretch their wings, run, scratch, eat bugs, do what chickens are supposed to do. I also felt a little melancholy because I knew that other chicks that came from the same place that these beautiful creatures had come from, would not get to experience this type of life. Such is the blessing of having a small amount of birds and not needing to mass produce eggs and meat.
The young birds grew quickly once they were moved into their coop and they started to look at me as "mom". One of the chickens, Gertrude, who had a pink band on her leg, quickly became one of my favorites because she would walk right up to me to "talk" as only chickens can and even let me pet her.
Free ranging urban chickens
I found myself sitting for several hours in the evening, just watching them. I had found a new form of entertainment, Chicken TV! Still today, I enjoy the gentle movements of the birds-- their curiosity of the world around them completely fascinates me and I love it!
After two months went by and it was now July, I started to anticipate the day when I would look into the coop and find that magical of all things when one is raising chickens for pleasure-- the coveted first egg! Weeks went by and I didn't find anything! I was starting to wonder if they maybe wouldn't lay or, God forbid, I ended up with a rooster!
The hens (at least as far as I knew) grew larger and filled out even more and I became even more obsessed with checking the nesting boxes. Sometimes I would check twice a day-- so desperate for that little gem to appear among the pine shavings.
Chickens looking at me like I'm "mom"
I was starting to feel actual despair that there was something "wrong" with my chickens. I had raised them lovingly, talked to them, sang to them (occasionally and definitely softly when I was outside), fed them the expensive chicken treats that my local farm store convinced me through signage that I had to feed them to be happy hens, and kept their coop immaculately clean. NO EGGS!
I'm sure I visited every urban chicken website available to ask when I could expect to find that first egg. What I found was that it varied on so many things and that nature, as she almost always does, would allow the first egg when it was the time for the first egg. I just had to learn patience in a world that demands that things happen NOW.
One evening in August, I opened the coop door to allow Gertrude, Mildred, Eleanor and Henrietta to explore the backyard and enjoy their fill of the locusts that swarm the large maple tree in the backyard and often fall to the ground. As the ladies rushed out to enjoy freedom in the fenced backyard, I stepped into the coop to glance into the nesting box, expecting to see the usual sight of bird droppings mixed with pine shavings.
OMIGOSH! I thought, I see a shell! This excitement quickly turned to sighs as I realized that yes, an egg had been laid, and it was a wonderful blue egg which meant that it came from my white Araucana, Henrietta, but in her excitement to laying the egg, she had stepped on it and crushed the shell. No matter though, I had to get a photo of it regardless of the state that the egg was in.
I gently scooped the broken shell from the floor of the nesting box, watching as the golden yolk gently moved inside the top half of the shell. "Darn!!" I said, thinking that it would have been so wonderful to get to enjoy this first egg-- the reward for all of the nights of worrying, the headaches and aches of building the chicken coop and what I had ultimately been waiting for since that cold day in March when the chicks had first come to live with me.
I carried the shattered egg to the back porch and gently placed it on a small table that I have near the back door. I ran into the house to grab my phone and when I returned, my older pup, Gracie was crying and pawing at the remains of the egg on the table-- attempting to completely erase the memory of that first egg. "NO Gracie!" I said as I pushed her away, "No, girl, no. You can't have this one yet."
I snapped a quick photo of the remains of the egg and then placed it on the back step for Gracie to lap up the fresh golden yolk and completely desecrate the shell into tiny shards of blue mosaic. I then went out into the yard to pat Henrietta, who by now had become just as tame as my first favorite, Gertrude, and tell her what a good job she had done. Heck, I don't know if she knew what I was even talking about, but she arched her back as I patted her and made that soft cooing sound that hens do when they're at peace.
The remains of the first egg before Gracie completely destroyed it
Again, though, I was taught more patience as I knew that even though the first egg had been destroyed, that meant that at least one hen was laying and there would be another egg soon!
Now I checked the nesting box twice a day, but without the usual "glass half empty" attitude that I had a few weeks earlier. I knew that at least Henrietta would be laying again-- I just had to find the egg this time before she had the opportunity to step on it or something horrible happen to it again. I had no idea how long I would need to wait to find this egg, but I was now on an egg mission.
The first egg was laid on a Thursday so the following Saturday I let the hens out early in the morning to enjoy an entire day of freedom (they love that!). I was catching up on yard work that my little "postage stamp" of a yard so desperately needed, when, shortly after 1:00 that afternoon, I saw Henrietta head towards the nesting box from scratching towards the back of the yard. This was not like her usual behavior when she had run of the yard with the others. Usually once the girls are let out they stay far from the coop-- afraid that I'm going to make them stay inside and not get their usual treats of fresh grass and those ever present locusts.
I quietly followed her and watched her enter the coop, go up the little ramp and settle into one of the two nesting boxes that are available for egg laying inside the covered box of the henhouse. I figured I would give her some privacy, so I left her to her musings and went about finishing pulling weeds near the back shed.
Fifteen minutes or so later I saw Henrietta run to join the others in their quest to grab the ripe tomatoes from the well composted plants and I quickly headed to the coop. I peered into the nesting box expecting to see a little blue jewel. Hmm, I thought, nothing. Nothing. NOTHING! NOTHING?!?! My mind tried to wrap around the idea that the egg laying powers that be must be laughing their fool heads off. "Ha!" I pictured them saying, "We tortured you on purpose and were only going to give you one egg!" "UUUUGGGGH," I said, walked away from the coop and went back to pulling weeds. "This is CRAZY!" I found myself saying.
As I was grumbling, I saw Henrietta leave the group again and head back towards the coop. Huh? Maybe she had a false alarm and now this was going to be the real deal. I watched from my vantage point in the back of the yard which is about 50-60 feet from the coop. She again entered the coop door and this time didn't go up the ladder to the covered box containing the nesting boxes. Instead, she dipped her beak into her 3 gallon waterer, took a few more drinks and then ran out to join her group again. No way that there was a egg left behind.
"TORTURE!" I thought, "These chickens are going to make me nuts!"
I finished my weeding and then went inside the house to get fish food for the small pond of goldfish that I have in the side yard. As I walked by the chicken coop to get to the pond, I happened to glance at the floor of the chicken coop. "What the what?!" I thought. Was that what I thought it was?! It was! A perfectly formed, perfectly small, perfectly blue egg! Henrietta's egg! She hadn't tortured me, she just needed a drink to help finish the process of laying! I was beyond excited!
Henrietta's 2nd, Perfect, Egg
I immediately snapped a photo of the perfect gem and then sent it to everyone I could-- even going to Facebook to post the picture. This was big stuff! The second egg and this time it was whole and it was perfect! I gingerly picked up the egg and even went next door to show it to my neighbors, almost shaking with excitement that I had been gifted this perfect creation. They nodded empathetically-- I'm sure thinking, she's nuts, and then I took the egg inside to place into the purple ceramic egg holder I had gotten for this exact occasion when the chickens had finally started producing eggs.
I had intended on blowing out the first egg that was lain and saving it, but the 2nd would do just fine so that's what I did a few days later. I was able to get both the white and yolk out and had it, with another gem Henrietta laid a day or so later, for breakfast one morning. They were the most delicious eggs I have had in a long time!
Fast forward another few days to the present day and the Buffs have still not started laying yet, but Henrietta lays an egg at least every other day and I know that it's her eggs because they are blue. I'm sure this is another lesson in patience and I know the others will start when it's the right time, but in the meantime it looks like Henrietta has risen to the top spot of Favorite Chicken. What a crazy ride it's been and I can't wait to see what happens next!
So long for now from the Urban Zoo!
Monday, August 10, 2015
Frog Farewell
There was a death in the Urban Zoo this evening. Rather, should I say, a death was discovered this evening. Exact date and time of demise is still pending.
Fortunately it wasn't as dramatic or traumatic as the loss of my dear chocolate lab Sophie, but death in any form is still kind of sad. It is a good-bye and farewell that stings, especially when that loss is tied to past places and times. Such was the case this evening in the discovery that one of my African clawed frogs had gone to the great Lily Pad in the Sky. These frogs were given to me as a birthday gift from a co-worker who became a dear friend almost 7 years ago.
I was hurriedly cleaning my house, preparing for one of those at-home parties that I got suckered into having because I wanted to help out a friend and I thought-- you know, my guests are already going to have to deal with pet hair in random places, I don't want them to have to view the algae filled tank that housed these two little aquatic gems as they enter my front door tomorrow evening.
Don't get me wrong, I cleaned the 1 gallon tank at least once a month, but for some reason the algae grows like mad. I've tried reducing the amount of time that the little 15 watt light is on, moving the tank to a spot that gets absolutely zero sunlight-- nothing seems to stop the plants from wanting to grow. So, once a month or so I pull everything out of the tank; rinse the gravel, take a soft toothbrush and scrub the ceramic décor cave and the sides of the tank and then put everything back in sparkling clean and vibrant and ready to grow more green algae.
As I said, I was in a hurry and I was used to just reaching in the tank and gently scooping the two little frogs up (they used to have exotic African names when I first got them and I'm embarrassed to admit that I forgot the names after I left my work with the American Cancer Society), placing them in a bowl that contained some water from their dirty tank and going about the process of cleaning the container as quickly as possible to minimize the time that the frogs were out of their home.
As I reached into the tank, I didn't see the familiar movement of two frogs which is what usually occurs when I go to collect them. Instead, I saw movement of one and the other flopped lazily against the side of the tank. "Oh, no. Poor frog," I found myself saying "I guess you finally just got too old."
I scooped up the surviving frog, put him into a bowl of water from the tank and then grabbed a piece of paper towel and scooped up the deceased corpse of my little froggy friend.
As I went about the business of cleaning the tank as usual I thought about what to do with the little amphibian's remains. Trash? No, never-- even when I was a small child I had to bury each and every animal I found on my parent's property, though my father would say to just toss the starlings in the trash. Toilet? No, that didn't seem right either and besides the frog was now wrapped in paper towel-- it would probably clog the pipes. No, the proper thing to do, even though it was 9:30PM and dark, was to bury the little frog.
I finished cleaning the tank, got the surviving frog into his clean home and went outside to grab a small garden spade from the small shed in my backyard. I selected a spot that had blooming Black-Eyed Susans and Echinacea, dug a little hole and placed the small folded piece of paper towel that held the little frog. As I placed him into this little resting place, I was shocked to find that I had tears threatening to fall. "Sorry little frog," I said "wish you could have lived a little longer." I didn't know what else to say at a African Clawed frog's eulogy especially at such a later hour. It seemed proper and I placed the dirt over the hole, put away the spade and went back inside.
I did stop for a moment to think of the little frog and the life he had lived all of these years. He started out in a small acrylic box with his tank mate for the first year and kept my desk at the Cancer Society company until I purchased the 1 gallon tank for him and his tank mate and the coworkers in my office would help "frog sit" for me. He and his tank mate had the most bizarre behavior-- oftentimes I would look into the tank and see one hugging the other furiously in an embrace. We called it "frog love" and I almost blushed at the fervor the frogs had at wanting to get close to one another.
The surviving frog now has a clean tank and I don't know how much longer I will get to enjoy his company before he makes the trip to froggy Heaven as well. In the meantime, maybe I can remember at least one of the original African names and start calling him by that.
Just another day in an Urban Zoo...
Fortunately it wasn't as dramatic or traumatic as the loss of my dear chocolate lab Sophie, but death in any form is still kind of sad. It is a good-bye and farewell that stings, especially when that loss is tied to past places and times. Such was the case this evening in the discovery that one of my African clawed frogs had gone to the great Lily Pad in the Sky. These frogs were given to me as a birthday gift from a co-worker who became a dear friend almost 7 years ago.
I was hurriedly cleaning my house, preparing for one of those at-home parties that I got suckered into having because I wanted to help out a friend and I thought-- you know, my guests are already going to have to deal with pet hair in random places, I don't want them to have to view the algae filled tank that housed these two little aquatic gems as they enter my front door tomorrow evening.
Don't get me wrong, I cleaned the 1 gallon tank at least once a month, but for some reason the algae grows like mad. I've tried reducing the amount of time that the little 15 watt light is on, moving the tank to a spot that gets absolutely zero sunlight-- nothing seems to stop the plants from wanting to grow. So, once a month or so I pull everything out of the tank; rinse the gravel, take a soft toothbrush and scrub the ceramic décor cave and the sides of the tank and then put everything back in sparkling clean and vibrant and ready to grow more green algae.
As I said, I was in a hurry and I was used to just reaching in the tank and gently scooping the two little frogs up (they used to have exotic African names when I first got them and I'm embarrassed to admit that I forgot the names after I left my work with the American Cancer Society), placing them in a bowl that contained some water from their dirty tank and going about the process of cleaning the container as quickly as possible to minimize the time that the frogs were out of their home.
As I reached into the tank, I didn't see the familiar movement of two frogs which is what usually occurs when I go to collect them. Instead, I saw movement of one and the other flopped lazily against the side of the tank. "Oh, no. Poor frog," I found myself saying "I guess you finally just got too old."
I scooped up the surviving frog, put him into a bowl of water from the tank and then grabbed a piece of paper towel and scooped up the deceased corpse of my little froggy friend.
As I went about the business of cleaning the tank as usual I thought about what to do with the little amphibian's remains. Trash? No, never-- even when I was a small child I had to bury each and every animal I found on my parent's property, though my father would say to just toss the starlings in the trash. Toilet? No, that didn't seem right either and besides the frog was now wrapped in paper towel-- it would probably clog the pipes. No, the proper thing to do, even though it was 9:30PM and dark, was to bury the little frog.
I finished cleaning the tank, got the surviving frog into his clean home and went outside to grab a small garden spade from the small shed in my backyard. I selected a spot that had blooming Black-Eyed Susans and Echinacea, dug a little hole and placed the small folded piece of paper towel that held the little frog. As I placed him into this little resting place, I was shocked to find that I had tears threatening to fall. "Sorry little frog," I said "wish you could have lived a little longer." I didn't know what else to say at a African Clawed frog's eulogy especially at such a later hour. It seemed proper and I placed the dirt over the hole, put away the spade and went back inside.
I did stop for a moment to think of the little frog and the life he had lived all of these years. He started out in a small acrylic box with his tank mate for the first year and kept my desk at the Cancer Society company until I purchased the 1 gallon tank for him and his tank mate and the coworkers in my office would help "frog sit" for me. He and his tank mate had the most bizarre behavior-- oftentimes I would look into the tank and see one hugging the other furiously in an embrace. We called it "frog love" and I almost blushed at the fervor the frogs had at wanting to get close to one another.
The surviving frog now has a clean tank and I don't know how much longer I will get to enjoy his company before he makes the trip to froggy Heaven as well. In the meantime, maybe I can remember at least one of the original African names and start calling him by that.
Just another day in an Urban Zoo...
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Crab Comforts and the Parting of the Cash- Part V
I don't know if it was guilt or just a need to protect, but now that the crabs had been found after such a traumatizing effort, I felt compelled to provide the best in crab comforts now for these little creatures. I couldn't possibly leave them in a tiny container and definitely could not place them back into their original Crab Home that had been the very place where they had almost met their demise-- not once but twice!
No, I had to get them the very best I could afford-- they needed a true crabitat, no, they needed a CRAB MAHAL.
I began by doing the research that very same evening that I had been reunited with the fellows (disclaimer-- I think I've since found out that Steve is a girl, but we won't tell him that). I found out that to be properly kept, the crabs needed to be provided with at least six inches of sand and a substrate of shredded coconut shells, a heating pad, hiding places and the debate was out on whether or whether not to provide a natural sea sponge for watering purposes. Sounded easy enough- I'd just make a visit to my local pet store the following day and purchase a 5 gallon aquarium, a screen top, some bedding and we'd be good to go.
Remember in my first part of the Crab Saga when I said that I thought $30 or so would be plenty to spend on these creatures? Boy, oh boy, was I wrong!
I entered the local commercial chain pet store the next morning, mistake number one I know, and began looking for the 5 gallon aquariums. Didn't it figure, they were completely sold out. However, shock of all shocks-- they had an aquarium sale whereby I could get a 10 gallon aquarium for ONLY $1.00 a gallon! What a deal! Cha-ching.
I grumbled, but again thought of the fate that the crabs had endured and figured that it would only be a few dollars more for the bedding and top and maybe a couple of bucks for the special hiding places and we'd be good. I selected a 10 gallon aquarium and then made my way over to the screen tops. I surely thought it was a joke-- $12.00?! Ugh. Thoughts of the former spilled Crab Home seeped into my thoughts though and I figured-- well, I don't want them to be able to escape again or have something else get them so I'd better spring for the top. Cha-ching, Cha-ching.
Next to follow was the substrate and I thought-- it's shredded coconut, can't be that expensive right? I wasn't too far off for the bedding fortunately, only $4.99 for a brick of the compressed stuff. Okay, I could live with that. Maybe this wasn't going to be too bad after all. ching.
Then I wanted to get the special crab heater that I had read they NEEDED and a special water bowl that wouldn't allow them to drown themselves, and two hiding places (I know I said I had three crabs, but the one was so tiny that they could share their digs I figured), and heaven knows you HAVE to have a thermometer to track what the temperature is within their home and, wait, what's this?? A special Hermit Crab Kit! Oooooh, my eyes must have grown to be the size of the cat's in the Shrek movies. I- MUST- HAVE- KIT! My mind echoed. The kit came with special bedding, special food, a small water dish, thermometer and sand. Wow, the cost of these items by themselves wouldn't be as great of a deal as the Hermit Crab Kit! I picked up the kit and placed it in the aquarium with the screen top.
Now, I just needed the special heating pad that I was told I MUST have and once I located said item I balked at the cost-- $19.99?!!? It was a tiny pad with an electric cord attached. How in the heck could the heater be so much?! I debated for a few moments and I thought of the poor little shivering crabs, alone and in the dark with no food, no water, oh, they deserved so much more my mind was thinking. Was I mad?! Most likely I was, but I selected the heating pad anyway and made my way up to the counter -- I was a poster child for any of those poor suckers that get an animal for the first time and think that they need to purchase everything offered for said animal. I'm sure the CEO of the commercial pet store chain was greedily rubbing his hands together somewhere on my need for all things crab. I am definitely a marketing target sucker.
I paid for my items and shuddered at what I had just shelled over to create this ultimate redemption Crab Mahal. I won't go into detail at how much all items ended up costing, but I will say that I could have gotten a kitten or puppy started for what I paid for these crabs.
Oh well, no matter I thought. They're been through a traumatic event and they're so going to appreciate all of the time and resources that I'm going to give to them. Ha!
I brought all of my items home, again passing through doggy security as I entered the back door to my house, and started to set everything up. I couldn't wait to see the crabs in their new, secure, home. It was going to be like the movie "Free Willy" or perhaps the theme from Born Free would start playing as they stretched out in their new area.
I also thought, how in the world can the pet trade say these are great first pets?! They're expensive, they require so much care with keeping temperature and humidity within acceptable limits and you have to mist them every day! This was definitely going to be the ultimate test in keeping such pets.
This thought quickly dissipated though as I put the finishing touches on the home and then went to get my three crabby pets from their small holding container. Steve, George and the sympathy crab, which by now had been named William, all got placed into the container gently and with a "enjoy your new home." I fastened the screen lid on, double checked to be sure it was secure and then sat down in front of the aquarium to watch them emerge to start exploring.
Crab Mahal
No, I had to get them the very best I could afford-- they needed a true crabitat, no, they needed a CRAB MAHAL.
I began by doing the research that very same evening that I had been reunited with the fellows (disclaimer-- I think I've since found out that Steve is a girl, but we won't tell him that). I found out that to be properly kept, the crabs needed to be provided with at least six inches of sand and a substrate of shredded coconut shells, a heating pad, hiding places and the debate was out on whether or whether not to provide a natural sea sponge for watering purposes. Sounded easy enough- I'd just make a visit to my local pet store the following day and purchase a 5 gallon aquarium, a screen top, some bedding and we'd be good to go.
Remember in my first part of the Crab Saga when I said that I thought $30 or so would be plenty to spend on these creatures? Boy, oh boy, was I wrong!
I entered the local commercial chain pet store the next morning, mistake number one I know, and began looking for the 5 gallon aquariums. Didn't it figure, they were completely sold out. However, shock of all shocks-- they had an aquarium sale whereby I could get a 10 gallon aquarium for ONLY $1.00 a gallon! What a deal! Cha-ching.
I grumbled, but again thought of the fate that the crabs had endured and figured that it would only be a few dollars more for the bedding and top and maybe a couple of bucks for the special hiding places and we'd be good. I selected a 10 gallon aquarium and then made my way over to the screen tops. I surely thought it was a joke-- $12.00?! Ugh. Thoughts of the former spilled Crab Home seeped into my thoughts though and I figured-- well, I don't want them to be able to escape again or have something else get them so I'd better spring for the top. Cha-ching, Cha-ching.
Next to follow was the substrate and I thought-- it's shredded coconut, can't be that expensive right? I wasn't too far off for the bedding fortunately, only $4.99 for a brick of the compressed stuff. Okay, I could live with that. Maybe this wasn't going to be too bad after all. ching.
Then I wanted to get the special crab heater that I had read they NEEDED and a special water bowl that wouldn't allow them to drown themselves, and two hiding places (I know I said I had three crabs, but the one was so tiny that they could share their digs I figured), and heaven knows you HAVE to have a thermometer to track what the temperature is within their home and, wait, what's this?? A special Hermit Crab Kit! Oooooh, my eyes must have grown to be the size of the cat's in the Shrek movies. I- MUST- HAVE- KIT! My mind echoed. The kit came with special bedding, special food, a small water dish, thermometer and sand. Wow, the cost of these items by themselves wouldn't be as great of a deal as the Hermit Crab Kit! I picked up the kit and placed it in the aquarium with the screen top.
Now, I just needed the special heating pad that I was told I MUST have and once I located said item I balked at the cost-- $19.99?!!? It was a tiny pad with an electric cord attached. How in the heck could the heater be so much?! I debated for a few moments and I thought of the poor little shivering crabs, alone and in the dark with no food, no water, oh, they deserved so much more my mind was thinking. Was I mad?! Most likely I was, but I selected the heating pad anyway and made my way up to the counter -- I was a poster child for any of those poor suckers that get an animal for the first time and think that they need to purchase everything offered for said animal. I'm sure the CEO of the commercial pet store chain was greedily rubbing his hands together somewhere on my need for all things crab. I am definitely a marketing target sucker.
I paid for my items and shuddered at what I had just shelled over to create this ultimate redemption Crab Mahal. I won't go into detail at how much all items ended up costing, but I will say that I could have gotten a kitten or puppy started for what I paid for these crabs.
Oh well, no matter I thought. They're been through a traumatic event and they're so going to appreciate all of the time and resources that I'm going to give to them. Ha!
I brought all of my items home, again passing through doggy security as I entered the back door to my house, and started to set everything up. I couldn't wait to see the crabs in their new, secure, home. It was going to be like the movie "Free Willy" or perhaps the theme from Born Free would start playing as they stretched out in their new area.
I also thought, how in the world can the pet trade say these are great first pets?! They're expensive, they require so much care with keeping temperature and humidity within acceptable limits and you have to mist them every day! This was definitely going to be the ultimate test in keeping such pets.
This thought quickly dissipated though as I put the finishing touches on the home and then went to get my three crabby pets from their small holding container. Steve, George and the sympathy crab, which by now had been named William, all got placed into the container gently and with a "enjoy your new home." I fastened the screen lid on, double checked to be sure it was secure and then sat down in front of the aquarium to watch them emerge to start exploring.
Crab Mahal
A minute went by, and then 5 minutes, and then 10 minutes and the creatures were not moving from their shells. My older dog, Gracie, came up to me and started to cry for attention-- not understanding why I was staring at something that wasn't doing anything, smelled funny and didn't involve her. I patted her head, told her to wait a minute and kept watching the shells for movement.
Finally, Steve started to stretch his crabby legs and I thought, "Yay! He's going to look around his new home!" I watched him completely emerge from his shell, and start to head towards the white sand of the Crab Mahal. Oh, isn't this wonderful? I thought to myself. He's going to eat some of the food that I had just mixed moments before-- what a great crab mamma I am.
Steve bypassed the food dish, approached the wooden hiding box marked with "Sleephouse" on the front, crawled inside and didn't move again. Harumph, I thought, that was less than exciting.
My attention now turned to William and George. Surely one of these crustaceans would take notice of my crabitat decorating skills and appreciate the glory that was the Crab Mahal.
More minutes ticked by and Gracie pawed frantically at my lap, begging my attention away. Finally, after 30 minutes or so, I gave up and went to do other tasks that afternoon. I guess all of those days alone in the house had exhausted the crabs and maybe they just needed to sleep. Perhaps later they would be doing the hiding, digging, crazy stuff that I had read about in all of the crab care manuals (especially the one that came with the Crab Kit).
I've now owned the crabs for roughly 4 weeks and I rarely catch them moving. I'm told they are nocturnal animals and move mostly at night. In the mornings when I go to mist their home with a little squirt bottle, I notice that sand has been moved around and various other signs that something has been moving around through the night, but other than that-- they're pretty boring pets. I don't know how, but I've somehow managed to keep them moist enough, warm enough and fed and watered enough that they're surviving. I still don't understand how they can be great first time pets-- they require so much more care than your average goldfish or even cat or dog.
Still though, it has been an adventure in trying to get these guys to where they are today. I've seen even better Crab Mahals that are bordering on the extreme with special grow lights and water features, misting machines and climbing branches. These are great and I'm sure my crabs would appreciate a home more closely related to where they originate from which would be the tropical area around South Florida and closer to the Equator. In the meantime, however, I'll just keep watching for that next story to happen around my little urban zoo.
Crabby Resurrection- Part IV
The days following the crabs untimely demise and the soaked basement and the ceiling were ones of fans running, towels being washed and constant vigil when the Puggle went out to do his business-- watching for the sign that the crabs had finished their journey through the depths of gastro-land. I had to call Buster's owner and tell her what had happened-- assuring her that I would keep an eye out for any problems when it came time for him to do his thing outside. I was fearing an obstruction in the worse of ways and praying that it wouldn't come to me needing to get him to the veterinarian to remove pieces of crab shell that had gotten stuck.
I swept up the sand that had been ground into the carpet in the guest bedroom and swept up the sand in the dining room, following with a nice wet mop to remove any dust, and tossed the once revered crab home onto the pile of stuff that was going to be going to the local second hand shop. I posted something about the crazy crab happenings on Facebook and had to laugh a little that I really wasn't upset that the crabs had disappeared. My attention now was on their suspected killer, Buster, that he was going to be okay.
Twice a day I would let the pups outside and twice a day I watched for Buster to assume the all too obvious landing position that dogs take when they're about to do a poo. Nothing happened for 2 days. I was scared. It was time to take action I thought-- the next day I was going to have to call our local vet and explain the saga to him-- ugh.
Then, on the 3rd day it was like the poo gods had spoken and I saw Buster crouch. Poo Christmas! The Puggle meandered around a bit-- delivering some here and there, kicked his back feet and was finished. I happily went out to inspect the gift he had left in my lawn. I know, really?! I grabbed a fallen stick from the giant maple tree and approached the leavings. What the heck? I didn't see any crab shell remnants. No claws, no shell, nothing but sand and the original water sponge that had been in the crabitat. Hmm, I thought, surely they weren't stuck in the dog were they?!
No matter, Buster's poo workings were working and that was a good thing for now. I'd just have to wait a bit longer I thought. I left the dogs outside that afternoon since it was a cooler than normal day for July and started to clean around my house-- trying to get some sort of order back from all that had transpired a few days prior.
As a sympathy gift, the young friend who had originally won the crabs with me at the fair, just happened to play the crab game again and ended up with a tiny crab which he brought to my house in its own little container in the days following the crab catastrophe. I was less than enthused, but I set up the little home and just figured that I could make do with a tiny crab and would work on getting better digs later.
I don't have a mud room per see in my house, so a corner of the kitchen near the back door holds my jackets and gardening/yard shoes. I was straightening these shoes on the small rack when I saw a glimpse of a familiar item. A SHELL! Omigosh! A shell! I pulled the shell from the dusty, fur bunny corner and recognized it immediately as Steve's shell. The Puggle hadn't eaten Steve!
My thoughts then turned to the idea that the poor crab had dried up trying to get away and I hadn't found him in time. Everything I had read about crab care had said that if the crabs aren't misted daily and provided food they die quickly. I flipped the shell over to look at what was left of the little crustacean, continuously cooing "so sorry Steve." Amid random cat and dog hairs I noticed the crab's large purple claw tucked deep within the shell. "Poor guy," I said as I tapped the claw.
The action of what happened next was nothing short of a crabby miracle. THE CLAW MOVED! Wait, what?! Yes, that was correct-- THE CLAW MOVED! STEVE WAS ALIVE!!!
I quickly removed the random hairs from the shell's opening and ran to grab the small crab container, which housed the sympathy crab I had received a day or so before. I had to get Steve to food and water and fast!
YAY STEVE! I kept repeating as I placed him in the small container with the other tiny crab.
Once Steve felt the sand beneath his shell and noticed the moisture within the container, he stretched out of his covering and eagerly began to drink. He would reach out with his smaller legs, dab at the water droplets on the side of the container and move it towards his mouth. He was still creepy to me, but for some reason in his weakened state I felt what could only be described as sympathy for the poor fellow. Steve was alive!
Newly found George
I swept up the sand that had been ground into the carpet in the guest bedroom and swept up the sand in the dining room, following with a nice wet mop to remove any dust, and tossed the once revered crab home onto the pile of stuff that was going to be going to the local second hand shop. I posted something about the crazy crab happenings on Facebook and had to laugh a little that I really wasn't upset that the crabs had disappeared. My attention now was on their suspected killer, Buster, that he was going to be okay.
Twice a day I would let the pups outside and twice a day I watched for Buster to assume the all too obvious landing position that dogs take when they're about to do a poo. Nothing happened for 2 days. I was scared. It was time to take action I thought-- the next day I was going to have to call our local vet and explain the saga to him-- ugh.
Then, on the 3rd day it was like the poo gods had spoken and I saw Buster crouch. Poo Christmas! The Puggle meandered around a bit-- delivering some here and there, kicked his back feet and was finished. I happily went out to inspect the gift he had left in my lawn. I know, really?! I grabbed a fallen stick from the giant maple tree and approached the leavings. What the heck? I didn't see any crab shell remnants. No claws, no shell, nothing but sand and the original water sponge that had been in the crabitat. Hmm, I thought, surely they weren't stuck in the dog were they?!
No matter, Buster's poo workings were working and that was a good thing for now. I'd just have to wait a bit longer I thought. I left the dogs outside that afternoon since it was a cooler than normal day for July and started to clean around my house-- trying to get some sort of order back from all that had transpired a few days prior.
As a sympathy gift, the young friend who had originally won the crabs with me at the fair, just happened to play the crab game again and ended up with a tiny crab which he brought to my house in its own little container in the days following the crab catastrophe. I was less than enthused, but I set up the little home and just figured that I could make do with a tiny crab and would work on getting better digs later.
I don't have a mud room per see in my house, so a corner of the kitchen near the back door holds my jackets and gardening/yard shoes. I was straightening these shoes on the small rack when I saw a glimpse of a familiar item. A SHELL! Omigosh! A shell! I pulled the shell from the dusty, fur bunny corner and recognized it immediately as Steve's shell. The Puggle hadn't eaten Steve!
My thoughts then turned to the idea that the poor crab had dried up trying to get away and I hadn't found him in time. Everything I had read about crab care had said that if the crabs aren't misted daily and provided food they die quickly. I flipped the shell over to look at what was left of the little crustacean, continuously cooing "so sorry Steve." Amid random cat and dog hairs I noticed the crab's large purple claw tucked deep within the shell. "Poor guy," I said as I tapped the claw.
The action of what happened next was nothing short of a crabby miracle. THE CLAW MOVED! Wait, what?! Yes, that was correct-- THE CLAW MOVED! STEVE WAS ALIVE!!!
I quickly removed the random hairs from the shell's opening and ran to grab the small crab container, which housed the sympathy crab I had received a day or so before. I had to get Steve to food and water and fast!
YAY STEVE! I kept repeating as I placed him in the small container with the other tiny crab.
Once Steve felt the sand beneath his shell and noticed the moisture within the container, he stretched out of his covering and eagerly began to drink. He would reach out with his smaller legs, dab at the water droplets on the side of the container and move it towards his mouth. He was still creepy to me, but for some reason in his weakened state I felt what could only be described as sympathy for the poor fellow. Steve was alive!
Newly found Steve
I took pictures of the newly found crab, rejoicing that he had survived over a week with no food or water and posted them on Facebook-- touting that it was a "Crabby Miracle!"
Amid my rejoicing, my thoughts then turned to the other crustacean that had disappeared that fateful evening. If Steve was alive, why couldn't it be possible that George was still somewhere to be found?
I resumed my search for the missing crab with a new fervor. I rechecked under the beds, in corners, under the refrigerator, behind doors-- no George. I then checked one place that I hadn't before.
As I've said before, I live in a late 1880's Victorian bungalow. These old homes have air intakes in the floor that are quite large and have openings in the grates that are at least 1/4 inch wide and hardly navigated by something so small as a crab without falling to the depths below.
I got on my knees and peered under a bookshelf that sits atop one of these air intakes. It was Crabby Christmas! I noticed a shell amid dust, pet hair and just grossness. "GEORGE!" I exclaimed as I reached back and plucked the shell from its hidden corner. "Are you alive too?" I said as I flipped over the shell, noticed the same type of claw, tapped it and saw movement as well. OMIGOSH! I had scored big! Both crabs had survived a dog attack, no food and no water for a week!
I placed George within the same small container and saw the now familiar movement as I had with his other crabby friend. He would stretch, reach out and drink hungrily.
Newly found George
Ahh, I had the crabs secured, fed, watered and in a tiny container! Now what?!
Friday, August 7, 2015
A Real Pinch - Part III
I was snug in my little bed, the cool sheets beckoning me to stay a little while longer, but the sound was intense-- "scratch, scratch, scratch..." I opened my eyes just a crack and looked around my room-- the light glowing softly through the blinds suggested that it was around 6:30 on a Saturday morning. Ugh, I thought-- what in the heck could be making that sound and why in the world did this have to happen on a morning when I can usually sleep in and shrug off the demands of the work week?
I held still a few minutes longer and let my mind wander until suddenly the source of the sounds hit me-- OMG! It's the darn crabs!!!! I tossed the covers back amid the groaning protest of my little Boston Terrier, Luna, who had burrowed herself deep within the covers and set my feet down, hard, on the carpet. Rushing toward the source of the sound I found a crab nightmare-- the awesome Crab Home that I had carefully assembled just a few hours before, was laying on the ground-- sand tossed onto the carpet, my temporary Puggle visitor, Buster, hungrily gulping the special white sand that I was assured that I absolutely MUST have to ensure the survival of the little crustaceans. I frantically looked for Steve and George. They can't have gone very far I thought-- they move so slow!
I looked a few feet beyond the spilled sand and noticed two small shells, sitting placidly upon my ecru colored carpet. Steve and George! "Oh, sorry little guys," I cooed as I picked them up and scolded Buster. "Bad dog Buster," I said harshly "you're going outside!"
I opened the door leading to the backyard and shoed the heavy Puggle outside. Once the destroyer was out, I turned my attention to the crabs and their shamble of a once grand "Crabitat." Hmm, I thought, fortunately the enclosure wasn't cracked and could be reassembled without much more than a refill of the sand, a resoaking of their water sponge and putting the crab home on a more secure locale. Easy enough!
I reassembled the crab home, not as carefully this time-- I was frustrated, snapped the lid on the container and put it on top of my dining room table for the moment. I still wasn't sure where the safest location would be that would be free of the jaws of the crab destroyer, but was almost positive that there was no possible way that he could reach there. What little I knew.
In Southern Indiana we have a saying, "if you don't like the weather here, wait an hour-- it will change." We've been subject to crazy amounts of snow, strong winds and a deluge that made Niagara Falls seem like a trickle. It was one of those deluges that almost sent the crabs to their shell spirit in the sky.
I was out with friends one evening, not too far beyond the catastrophe with the crabs, having a great time, when a huge downpour started. I wasn't thinking a whole lot about it-- I had recently sealed some areas of my house, specifically a few spots in the concrete block of the basement walls and a spot on an outside gutter, that had experienced leaking from other downpours and was thinking that I was pretty safe. I took my time, finally leaving and driving home through flooded streets and downed tree limbs. I ran from my driveway to the backdoor-- dodging raindrops that seemed more like rain splashes and jamming my key into the lock. I was feeling pretty confident, I had made it inside without completely getting drenched and snapped my umbrella open to air dry on my linoleum kitchen floor. Ahh, I thought, I think the house is dry.
Just to be sure, however, I peeked through the doorway leading to the basement and was completely agast at what I saw. Not only a little water, but WATER, big freaking puddle/pond/lake water! There was a TON of it and it was still trickling in through a tiny hole under one of the basement stairs that I had neglected to seal. UGH!!! I knew I had to act and fast before the water breached the upper level of basement and poured to the next level which contained the water heater and furnace. Oh crap! I quickly grabbed my small utility pump that had been used so many times before, gathered up the length of garden hose that was still attached to the pump, ran it upstairs to the kitchen sink and secured the hose to the edge of the sink with duct tape. Oh yes, I'm so addicted to my friends Duct Tape and WD-40. I carefully, but very quickly, made my way back to the basement to plug the pump in and listened as it started up-- hungrily gurgling water up the hose to the kitchen sink and then back down the drain. I was completely ticked that the water had come in yet again, but so relieved that the water was being pumped out and that it wouldn't make it to the furnace or water heater.
Crisis in the basement averted, I thought of the upstairs ceiling that had allowed water to come in during the last downpour. I had spent an afternoon a few days prior sealing cracks in the outside guttering that I felt that had allowed water to come in. Surely it had held, right? I walked from my kitchen toward the small hallway that held the ceiling in question and I was stopped short by a sight that I noticed in my dining room. What the what?!
My house is a late 1880's bungalow that still holds some of its original gems. One of those gems are hardwood floors that were hiding beneath carpeting. I had refinished the floor in the dining room a few years back and it was upon this beautiful hardwood that I saw sand, lots of sand, sand strewn everywhere! What the what?!?! It was at that moment that I realized EXACTLY where the source of the sand had come from-- those crabs! Oh no. Where were the darn crabs this time?! I looked beyond the dining room to the guest bedroom that still had carpeting-- more sand. Oh shitake mushrooms! "BUSTER!!!!" I yelled.
The Puggle sheepishly sauntered his way from the kennel located in the master bedroom, underbite almost scraping the floor and he looked up at me with huge brown eyes and licked his chops. "NOOOOOO!!!! BAD DOG!!" I said, the sound echoing about the downpour that had started again outside. That's when I heard another sound, drip, drip, drip, drip. I turned my attention from the pica pup and looked in the small hallway-- MORE WATER!
The water was dripping, no, make that streaming, from the ceiling down the wall and to the hardwood floor in that area. "SON OF A BISCUIT (actually it was a stronger word-- trying to keep it family friendly here)!" I yelled. "WHAT THE HELLO?!?!?!"
Buster got lucky-- I had a new crisis that I had to attend to. SHOOT!!! I flung towels from the guest bathroom to the spot in the hallway to start sopping up the water and grabbed an empty kitty litter pail to try and catch some of the water before it made it to the floor. Was this real?! What in the heck did I do to deserve this?!?! I was on full blown 'protect the house at all costs' mode-- no matter how long it took I had to defend it against the raging water that was trying to seep in.
In between moving towels, emptying buckets and cussing at the poor Puggle, I frantically searched for Steve and George. I looked beneath every bed, in every corner, under every piece of furniture. They were gone. Gone to the depths of the dog's bulging belly. I couldn't believe that they'd met such a demise nor did I have a clue that dogs would eat hermit crabs! Oh well, though, I thought, no matter-- I had to try and salvage what was left of my house and to heck with the crazy things.
The water continued to pour in until the rain finally stopped, around 1:00AM. I was beat and frustrated. My house was water logged, my carpet and floor were a sandy mess and my two crabs were gone. I was done, it was time to just sleep and hopefully wake up from this nightmare.
I held still a few minutes longer and let my mind wander until suddenly the source of the sounds hit me-- OMG! It's the darn crabs!!!! I tossed the covers back amid the groaning protest of my little Boston Terrier, Luna, who had burrowed herself deep within the covers and set my feet down, hard, on the carpet. Rushing toward the source of the sound I found a crab nightmare-- the awesome Crab Home that I had carefully assembled just a few hours before, was laying on the ground-- sand tossed onto the carpet, my temporary Puggle visitor, Buster, hungrily gulping the special white sand that I was assured that I absolutely MUST have to ensure the survival of the little crustaceans. I frantically looked for Steve and George. They can't have gone very far I thought-- they move so slow!
I looked a few feet beyond the spilled sand and noticed two small shells, sitting placidly upon my ecru colored carpet. Steve and George! "Oh, sorry little guys," I cooed as I picked them up and scolded Buster. "Bad dog Buster," I said harshly "you're going outside!"
I opened the door leading to the backyard and shoed the heavy Puggle outside. Once the destroyer was out, I turned my attention to the crabs and their shamble of a once grand "Crabitat." Hmm, I thought, fortunately the enclosure wasn't cracked and could be reassembled without much more than a refill of the sand, a resoaking of their water sponge and putting the crab home on a more secure locale. Easy enough!
I reassembled the crab home, not as carefully this time-- I was frustrated, snapped the lid on the container and put it on top of my dining room table for the moment. I still wasn't sure where the safest location would be that would be free of the jaws of the crab destroyer, but was almost positive that there was no possible way that he could reach there. What little I knew.
In Southern Indiana we have a saying, "if you don't like the weather here, wait an hour-- it will change." We've been subject to crazy amounts of snow, strong winds and a deluge that made Niagara Falls seem like a trickle. It was one of those deluges that almost sent the crabs to their shell spirit in the sky.
I was out with friends one evening, not too far beyond the catastrophe with the crabs, having a great time, when a huge downpour started. I wasn't thinking a whole lot about it-- I had recently sealed some areas of my house, specifically a few spots in the concrete block of the basement walls and a spot on an outside gutter, that had experienced leaking from other downpours and was thinking that I was pretty safe. I took my time, finally leaving and driving home through flooded streets and downed tree limbs. I ran from my driveway to the backdoor-- dodging raindrops that seemed more like rain splashes and jamming my key into the lock. I was feeling pretty confident, I had made it inside without completely getting drenched and snapped my umbrella open to air dry on my linoleum kitchen floor. Ahh, I thought, I think the house is dry.
Just to be sure, however, I peeked through the doorway leading to the basement and was completely agast at what I saw. Not only a little water, but WATER, big freaking puddle/pond/lake water! There was a TON of it and it was still trickling in through a tiny hole under one of the basement stairs that I had neglected to seal. UGH!!! I knew I had to act and fast before the water breached the upper level of basement and poured to the next level which contained the water heater and furnace. Oh crap! I quickly grabbed my small utility pump that had been used so many times before, gathered up the length of garden hose that was still attached to the pump, ran it upstairs to the kitchen sink and secured the hose to the edge of the sink with duct tape. Oh yes, I'm so addicted to my friends Duct Tape and WD-40. I carefully, but very quickly, made my way back to the basement to plug the pump in and listened as it started up-- hungrily gurgling water up the hose to the kitchen sink and then back down the drain. I was completely ticked that the water had come in yet again, but so relieved that the water was being pumped out and that it wouldn't make it to the furnace or water heater.
Crisis in the basement averted, I thought of the upstairs ceiling that had allowed water to come in during the last downpour. I had spent an afternoon a few days prior sealing cracks in the outside guttering that I felt that had allowed water to come in. Surely it had held, right? I walked from my kitchen toward the small hallway that held the ceiling in question and I was stopped short by a sight that I noticed in my dining room. What the what?!
My house is a late 1880's bungalow that still holds some of its original gems. One of those gems are hardwood floors that were hiding beneath carpeting. I had refinished the floor in the dining room a few years back and it was upon this beautiful hardwood that I saw sand, lots of sand, sand strewn everywhere! What the what?!?! It was at that moment that I realized EXACTLY where the source of the sand had come from-- those crabs! Oh no. Where were the darn crabs this time?! I looked beyond the dining room to the guest bedroom that still had carpeting-- more sand. Oh shitake mushrooms! "BUSTER!!!!" I yelled.
The Puggle sheepishly sauntered his way from the kennel located in the master bedroom, underbite almost scraping the floor and he looked up at me with huge brown eyes and licked his chops. "NOOOOOO!!!! BAD DOG!!" I said, the sound echoing about the downpour that had started again outside. That's when I heard another sound, drip, drip, drip, drip. I turned my attention from the pica pup and looked in the small hallway-- MORE WATER!
The water was dripping, no, make that streaming, from the ceiling down the wall and to the hardwood floor in that area. "SON OF A BISCUIT (actually it was a stronger word-- trying to keep it family friendly here)!" I yelled. "WHAT THE HELLO?!?!?!"
Buster got lucky-- I had a new crisis that I had to attend to. SHOOT!!! I flung towels from the guest bathroom to the spot in the hallway to start sopping up the water and grabbed an empty kitty litter pail to try and catch some of the water before it made it to the floor. Was this real?! What in the heck did I do to deserve this?!?! I was on full blown 'protect the house at all costs' mode-- no matter how long it took I had to defend it against the raging water that was trying to seep in.
In between moving towels, emptying buckets and cussing at the poor Puggle, I frantically searched for Steve and George. I looked beneath every bed, in every corner, under every piece of furniture. They were gone. Gone to the depths of the dog's bulging belly. I couldn't believe that they'd met such a demise nor did I have a clue that dogs would eat hermit crabs! Oh well, though, I thought, no matter-- I had to try and salvage what was left of my house and to heck with the crazy things.
The water continued to pour in until the rain finally stopped, around 1:00AM. I was beat and frustrated. My house was water logged, my carpet and floor were a sandy mess and my two crabs were gone. I was done, it was time to just sleep and hopefully wake up from this nightmare.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Crab Comforts - Part II
It was late, I was tired, and I had a sense of renewed energy at setting up the perfect home for these weird little creatures. I arrived home, parked in the driveway and gathered up the crab home with the plastic box containing Steve and George and made my way to the back door of my house. I put the key in the lock and as I turned the lock and opened the door, my four legged welcoming committee came running up to meet me. I was dog sitting for a friend so I had one more furry friend than usual-- a total of three. Gracie, the mixed breed, and Luna, the Boston Terrier, were my usual residents and Buster, a Puggle with a strong underbite, was a temporary resident while his fur parents were moving into a new home. All three pups gave me a quick sniff, checked out what I was carrying into the house and then hurriedly made their way outside to handle affairs better suited in the browning grass. So far, so good-- I passed my furry crew security with the new pets.
I set everything on the small table in the kitchen and opened the crab home box. This should be easy I thought as I pulled the plastic container from the box, gave it a quick rinse, toweled it dry and poured the bag of white sand into the enclosure. I felt like one of those Zen garden masters as I moved the sand to every corner of the crab home and made it smooth and what I thought would be appealing to any crustacean aficionado. Sand smoothing complete, I heard soft knocking in the small plastic container nearby and glanced over to see Steve and George trying to get their footing on the smooth plastic bottom, shells knocking against the sides of the box. "Not to worry guys," I said cooing "I'll have you in your home very soon." I'm sure this completely assured them-- no trauma here for crabs. No crabby psychiatrist needed.
I picked up my pace in putting together the "crabitat", a word that I kept seeing in the instructions included with the crab home, and got the water sponge put into its special place created just for crab water sponges. Next was the crab food and as I opened the container, I was hit with the pungent smell of dehydrated shrimp. Hmm, I thought, this is going to be interesting. I followed the food preparation directions listed on the side of the bottle and moistened the pieces of shrimp. I placed the container of food into the crabitat and placed the top on the new crab home. Success! Time to move the squirming crabby inhabitants into their new home. They were going to love it!
I picked up Steve and George and gently placed them into their new home. Dreams of them feeling the soft sand beneath their feet and running to try the odorous food that I had prepared for them were quickly dashed when they immediately retreated into their shells and refused to come out. Not daunted, I figured it was late anyway and that I needed to get my furry crew back inside from their potty adventures and prepare for bed. I placed the crabitat on the coffee table in the living room and secured the top. I figured this placement would allow me maximum viewing when they finally decided to come back out.
The dogs were eager to come back inside and I then sat on the sofa for a few minutes, intently watching for the crabs to come out of their shells. One of my cats, Oliver, jumped on the coffee table to give the crabs a quick sniff (I'm sure attracted to the smell of the crabs' food and wondering why he couldn't have such a delicacy at that hour) and then left them alone. Ahh, peace in the animal kingdom. This was going to totally work out.
I finally gave up on the crabs showing themselves that evening-- figuring they would be more active after some rest. After all, they had been traveling with the crazy carnival people-- they needed respite. I was going to be crab Zen master for them. Peace and tranquility. I got ready for bed and turned in for the night-- cooing again to my crabby crew "Good night Steve and George."
Little did I know a few hours later I would be awakened to the sound of scratching on plastic and crab mayhem, crab Armageddon, crab catastrophe.
I set everything on the small table in the kitchen and opened the crab home box. This should be easy I thought as I pulled the plastic container from the box, gave it a quick rinse, toweled it dry and poured the bag of white sand into the enclosure. I felt like one of those Zen garden masters as I moved the sand to every corner of the crab home and made it smooth and what I thought would be appealing to any crustacean aficionado. Sand smoothing complete, I heard soft knocking in the small plastic container nearby and glanced over to see Steve and George trying to get their footing on the smooth plastic bottom, shells knocking against the sides of the box. "Not to worry guys," I said cooing "I'll have you in your home very soon." I'm sure this completely assured them-- no trauma here for crabs. No crabby psychiatrist needed.
I picked up my pace in putting together the "crabitat", a word that I kept seeing in the instructions included with the crab home, and got the water sponge put into its special place created just for crab water sponges. Next was the crab food and as I opened the container, I was hit with the pungent smell of dehydrated shrimp. Hmm, I thought, this is going to be interesting. I followed the food preparation directions listed on the side of the bottle and moistened the pieces of shrimp. I placed the container of food into the crabitat and placed the top on the new crab home. Success! Time to move the squirming crabby inhabitants into their new home. They were going to love it!
I picked up Steve and George and gently placed them into their new home. Dreams of them feeling the soft sand beneath their feet and running to try the odorous food that I had prepared for them were quickly dashed when they immediately retreated into their shells and refused to come out. Not daunted, I figured it was late anyway and that I needed to get my furry crew back inside from their potty adventures and prepare for bed. I placed the crabitat on the coffee table in the living room and secured the top. I figured this placement would allow me maximum viewing when they finally decided to come back out.
The dogs were eager to come back inside and I then sat on the sofa for a few minutes, intently watching for the crabs to come out of their shells. One of my cats, Oliver, jumped on the coffee table to give the crabs a quick sniff (I'm sure attracted to the smell of the crabs' food and wondering why he couldn't have such a delicacy at that hour) and then left them alone. Ahh, peace in the animal kingdom. This was going to totally work out.
I finally gave up on the crabs showing themselves that evening-- figuring they would be more active after some rest. After all, they had been traveling with the crazy carnival people-- they needed respite. I was going to be crab Zen master for them. Peace and tranquility. I got ready for bed and turned in for the night-- cooing again to my crabby crew "Good night Steve and George."
Little did I know a few hours later I would be awakened to the sound of scratching on plastic and crab mayhem, crab Armageddon, crab catastrophe.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
First Crabby Digs - Part I
I haven't blogged in over a year so please bear with me as I flex my writing and try to get back into things. I've posted so many things on Facebook and keep hearing from people that they can't wait to hear what happens next. So, with that thought in mind, to quote the famous Paul Harvey-- these blog entries will be the 'rest of the story.' In my mind, I live a hum-drum life-- not too exciting, nothing extravagant, just kind of "beige." I guess funny things/unusual things/ crazy things happen to me all the time and I just have become so accustomed to it that it's nothing special to me.
That said, I've just recently been "gifted" three hermit crabs from the county fair after attending with a good friend and her family. They were obtained from a game of "skill," a game whereby ping pong balls were thrown from a distance toward small goldfish bowls. Get a ball into a bowl, win a hermit crab. Uh, yeah, never play with a kid that's about 20 years younger than you-- he'll hit the mark more often than not.
The cost was $5 for a gallon bucket of ping pong balls so I plunked down my Lincoln and starting tossing the balls at the bowls. I had already gone through 20 of the roughly 50 balls in the bucket and hadn't hit anything. I had the anticipation of wanting to get lucky, but also the apprehension that if I did make one of the bowls-- what in the hell would I do with a hermit crab?! I already have two dogs, two cats, four chickens, 2 African clawed frogs and about 10 pond fish-- I think the Inn is full!
My friend's brother (the kid who's 20 years younger than me) came over at this point, grabbed roughly 10 balls from the bucket and landed two of the 10! Ching, ching, two crabs! A few more tosses and ching! Another crab! We were racking it up! Next thing I knew, the Kid gave another $5 to the Carnie and again, after a few throws, ching ching! Two more bowls hit! Two more crabs! Yay!
Oooh, Shitake mushrooms! FIVE FREAKING CRABS!! I was caught up in the moment of winning, of greed, of wanting to take the creatures home! Then, a glimmer of reality set in and I realized how much space those five crabs would need. Not to mention that I know absolutely NOTHING about taking care of such a crustacean. The Kid was beside himself with excitement and announced loudly to the Carnie that we had 5 total crabs coming to us. I looked at the Carnie and said "uh, can we just have two?" The Carnie, grinning with fewer teeth than a stripped gear wheel, grunted "limit's two!" Whoo hoo! I could do this! Two crabs! They'd be buddies and I would be the Fairy Crabmother! Oh boy!
I gave the Carnie the $5 needed for the special plastic case and he put two squirming, writhing hermit crabs in and closed the lid. "Here ya go!" he announced as he handed it to me. I raised the container up to have a closer look at my new inhabitants. Hmm, they looked creepy-- yet kind of cool at the same time. Kind of like a Sigourney Weaver "Alien" kind of thing. This would be fun! I wanted to rescue them from their wild home with the carnies-- I wanted to make them a habitat that would make all other captive crustaceans jealous. In between all of this crab dreaming, I also came up with the names; George and Steve. It seemed fitting.
I carried the crabby plastic case through the fair as if it had a delicate art piece in it-- shielding from any bumps or unnecessary knocking that might happen as I dodged the masses of bare bellies, tattooed arms, and sticky fingered screaming kids that wanted "ice cream!" After saying goodnight to my friend and her family, I made my way to my car which was parked in a grassy field outside of the fair and set the container down on the passenger side floor of my little purple FIT. "Okay, George and Steve," I said-- I've got to find a home for you.
Options on crab habitats in a small town on a Saturday night after 9PM are kind of limited. At least, that's what I discovered. I opted for the local Wal-Mart and thought that perhaps I could find some food for them and something to tide them over until I could get the proper "crabitat" for them the next day at the overpriced commercial pet store. What I found was a round, plastic, container that stated all over the outside of the box "Hermit Crab Home." Ohh, how perfect! I checked the price, under $20! I briefly calculated the cost so far for these creatures, $15 (two buckets of balls and the plastic carrying container), so what was another $20? It would be all I needed-- I wouldn't have to spend anything else. After all, I kept seeing the statement on the hermit crab home that hermit crabs were great first pets-- that meant inexpensive, right?
That said, I've just recently been "gifted" three hermit crabs from the county fair after attending with a good friend and her family. They were obtained from a game of "skill," a game whereby ping pong balls were thrown from a distance toward small goldfish bowls. Get a ball into a bowl, win a hermit crab. Uh, yeah, never play with a kid that's about 20 years younger than you-- he'll hit the mark more often than not.
The cost was $5 for a gallon bucket of ping pong balls so I plunked down my Lincoln and starting tossing the balls at the bowls. I had already gone through 20 of the roughly 50 balls in the bucket and hadn't hit anything. I had the anticipation of wanting to get lucky, but also the apprehension that if I did make one of the bowls-- what in the hell would I do with a hermit crab?! I already have two dogs, two cats, four chickens, 2 African clawed frogs and about 10 pond fish-- I think the Inn is full!
My friend's brother (the kid who's 20 years younger than me) came over at this point, grabbed roughly 10 balls from the bucket and landed two of the 10! Ching, ching, two crabs! A few more tosses and ching! Another crab! We were racking it up! Next thing I knew, the Kid gave another $5 to the Carnie and again, after a few throws, ching ching! Two more bowls hit! Two more crabs! Yay!
Oooh, Shitake mushrooms! FIVE FREAKING CRABS!! I was caught up in the moment of winning, of greed, of wanting to take the creatures home! Then, a glimmer of reality set in and I realized how much space those five crabs would need. Not to mention that I know absolutely NOTHING about taking care of such a crustacean. The Kid was beside himself with excitement and announced loudly to the Carnie that we had 5 total crabs coming to us. I looked at the Carnie and said "uh, can we just have two?" The Carnie, grinning with fewer teeth than a stripped gear wheel, grunted "limit's two!" Whoo hoo! I could do this! Two crabs! They'd be buddies and I would be the Fairy Crabmother! Oh boy!
I gave the Carnie the $5 needed for the special plastic case and he put two squirming, writhing hermit crabs in and closed the lid. "Here ya go!" he announced as he handed it to me. I raised the container up to have a closer look at my new inhabitants. Hmm, they looked creepy-- yet kind of cool at the same time. Kind of like a Sigourney Weaver "Alien" kind of thing. This would be fun! I wanted to rescue them from their wild home with the carnies-- I wanted to make them a habitat that would make all other captive crustaceans jealous. In between all of this crab dreaming, I also came up with the names; George and Steve. It seemed fitting.
Options on crab habitats in a small town on a Saturday night after 9PM are kind of limited. At least, that's what I discovered. I opted for the local Wal-Mart and thought that perhaps I could find some food for them and something to tide them over until I could get the proper "crabitat" for them the next day at the overpriced commercial pet store. What I found was a round, plastic, container that stated all over the outside of the box "Hermit Crab Home." Ohh, how perfect! I checked the price, under $20! I briefly calculated the cost so far for these creatures, $15 (two buckets of balls and the plastic carrying container), so what was another $20? It would be all I needed-- I wouldn't have to spend anything else. After all, I kept seeing the statement on the hermit crab home that hermit crabs were great first pets-- that meant inexpensive, right?
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