A rare opportunity is an invitation to a crawfish boil. On a recent Saturday, I got the opportunity to go. It was a wonderful day that ended with a couple of little guys coming back to my place in red solo cups. Armed with buckets and water, my kids and I built our rescued crustaceans their new home. I searched the Internet to fill in the details about life span, domesticated food and preferred habitats. And there it was, the ideal home for these two guys.
What I didn’t read online was these two fellows fight like two teenagers sharing a bedroom – like teenagers with claws. The morning dawned and only one crawfish remained. It was a traumatic start to a Sunday morning. Both girls were crying at the early demise of their new friend. We held a brief, but well-attended, ceremony near the bushes in the backyard.
As I gently pushed the mulch in the hole and said, “Rest in peace, Pinchy,” my oldest daughter ran in the house, and my youngest daughter looked at me with utter disbelief and disdain. I answered her look with, “What?” She said, “Hiss name’s not Pinchy.” “What is it then, you both called him Pinchy?” She responded quickly, “Pinchy is his middle name, his name is Sunny.” Oh Sunny, I hardly knew you.
The next morning I was running through the neighborhood after a lot of rain. There he was, another crawfish holding his pinchers in the air looking at me for a fight. I grabbed him up and carted him two miles back home. Both girls awoke to what at first they thought was Sunny reborn from the mulch. Later they both appeared to grasp that this wasn’t Sunny. It was a new day. It was a better start. I told them both, some days are sad but some days you’re the craw daddy! This day was my day. Miss you Sunny.