There is family in our condo complex with a child who has a birthday soon. I wanted to buy the kid a present.
I considered a bicycle, but a bicycle is quiet when parked. I considered a drum kit, but the parents might think I was commenting on the noise from their condo. Then I discovered the peacock mantis shrimp: a brilliantly colored sea creature with two little clubs it uses to smash open shellfish.
At last, a pet that would fit right into the building.
I pictured the kid gazing into a magnificent aquarium, discovering the wonders of marine biology. The parents could learn along with their child. I would provide the instructions in French, a language none of us speaks. This seemed fair. I’ve had to guess what was happening downstairs for years.
At the aquarium store, a clerk explained that the shrimp needed a properly prepared saltwater tank, a hiding place, and an adult who would monitor the water and feed it. The tank had to be ready before the shrimp moved in.
“Could it break the glass?” I asked.
“That’s unusual, but you should choose the tank carefully.”
“Could it hurt a person?”
“Keep your hands out of its way.”
I nodded. He had delivered two clear warnings, and I had successfully mistaken both for an invitation to ask about a gift receipt.
I bought the entire setup and brought it home to inspect before the birthday. The shrimp settled into a little plastic castle. I leaned close to the glass. It leaned close too. For a moment, I felt we understood each other.
I decided the castle would look better three inches to the left. The clerk’s English instructions were somewhere in the shopping bag, but I had the French booklet open beside me. There was a sentence beginning Ne mettez pas la main… I assumed it meant “The little fellow likes visitors.”
I reached into the tank.
There was a click.
When Kate came home, I was sitting at the table with a towel around my left arm and the instruction booklet in front of me.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked.
“I believe it’s under the castle.”
She looked in the tank. Then she looked at my hand, which was still attached to me.
“Your hand is right there.”
“Then whose hand is under the castle?”
There was, of course, no hand under the castle. There was a small cut on one of my fingers. By the time I got to the emergency room, I had described it as a maritime amputation. The nurse cleaned it, put on a bandage, and asked me to stop telling people I had lost my left hand.
The shrimp was unharmed. Kate found someone who knew how to care for it, and I bought the kid a book about sea creatures instead. His parents thanked me. It was the most peaceful birthday present I have ever given anyone downstairs.
I have since learned that an aquarium is a gift only if the people receiving it want the aquarium, the work, and the creature inside it. I have also learned that Ne mettez pas la main dans l’aquarium is a useful sentence to understand before putting your hand in the aquarium.
If you’d like to see why I found this spectacular little animal so tempting in the first place, read The Oatmeal’s comic about the mantis shrimp. Its shrimp is considerably better informed than I was.
