I’m always amazed at what people keep in their freezers. From hemorrhoid cream to stool samples to placentas, the list is disgustingly endless. I’ll admit, even my own freezer is a subzero burial ground for both my kids’ deceased pet fish, Kevin and Cookie.
I stumbled upon their bug-eyed remains recently while digging through our chest freezer for fish sticks (ironically enough.) Andrew calls our cavernous arctic box ‘the way station’, the isle of culinary misfits where leftovers go to die. Now, since the betas have passed, it also doubles as a morgue.
Unlike kids who only briefly mourn the loss of their pet fish before flushing their cares away, mine feel compelled to host funerals for their dearly departed. Kevin and Cookie swam to the other side last November, when the ground was too hard for the inland internment, so we opted for a Glad cryogenic storage unit until weather conditions favoured a burial. So far, the caterer’s still on hold as my son seems to have moved on, while my daughter’s focus is now squarely on the acquisition of a more cuddly, labour intensive, pet.
Bringing a puppy or a kitten home is, regretfully, out of the question because I get hives the size of croutons whenever I’m around them. Therefore, given her lot, my daughter has announced that she will settle for a turtle.
While I’m relieved she’s found a compromise for her “unfair” circumstances, I really can’t say I relish the smell of her choice, nor the 30 – 40 years I could potentially spend caring for it while she’s off raising her own family (which will no doubt include an infinitely more playful dog or cat than the turtle I will have raised in a box in her bedroom).
In any event, I can’t deny her desperate need to care for something, so I’m seriously contemplating giving up the air quality in our home. I know she’s going to want to leash it up and take it for walks at least once a day, so here’s hoping we pick a sturdy little hatchling.
If not, there’s probably still some room in the freezer.