By Rob Holbert Managing Editor

We’ve been dealing with the fallout from a murder at my house recently, and it has introduced us to a shady underworld we wished we’d never discovered.

Recently, my son Ulysses’ hermit crabs, Tracy and Charlie, were involved in some kind of domestic squabble that resulted in Charlie’s arm and one of his legs no longer being attached to the rest of Charlie. The further result of this is that Charlie began to smell very strongly and stopped moving. Naturally, I did the only decent thing, and shoved Charlie’s severed limbs back into his shell, walked onto the front porch and threw him into the road construction site that has kept the city’s sanitation workers from picking up our garbage for three weeks.

My wife then had to explain to Ulysses that Charlie had “died.” The truth – that he’d been stone-cold murdered by a jealous female covetous of Charlie’s roomier shell – seemed too much to lay on a 4-year-old. When a friend bought the crabs for Ulysses, we figured we’d soon be having a conversation about death. But we didn’t imagine the issues of domestic violence, jealousy, murder and possibly face-eating would come with the territory.

Truth is, the concept of hermit crabs as pets is something that never crossed my mind. I grew up on the crab-filled waters of the Mississippi Sound, and hauling crabs – be they blue, hermit, ghost or fiddler – home as pets was never an option. As a freshman at Spring Hill, I laughed at the kids from the Midwest who thought it would be cool to bring hermits back to the dorm, only to have them stinking to high heaven a few days later.

So when Ulysses got the crabs, I didn’t give much thought to them as quality pets, or “animal companions” as some like to say. After all, you’re never going to have a hermit crab wake you up if there’s a fire, scare off a burglar or fetch the paper. My dogs wouldn’t do any of those things either, but at least they don’t live in shells and have giant pincers.

Even giving them names seemed ridiculous, especially since the gender issue wasn’t likely to be resolved without a pair of needle-nose pliers, a microscope and a crab sex chart. The only way we could really tell them apart was “Tracy” was more active, and actually moved around the little cage some. Charlie always seemed sickly, or maybe just scared.

The little card that came with them describing crab care made me even more certain they wouldn’t be with us long. We were supposed to serve them toast crumbs in a little dish and let them suck water out of a sponge – just like in the wild. After the cage-rage sent Charlie to the Selma Street Graveyard, though, we weren’t certain we were properly caring for our crabs. That’s when we went to the Web.

My wife called me the day after the murder and reported there were actual societies of people who keep hermit crabs as pets. According to these folks, we were waaaaay off base in caring for Charlie (rest his little crab soul) and Tracy. I logged on to discover more and discovered a sad congregation of people who collect these rocks with feet as pets and are dead serious about it.

The first hermit crab site I visited features a large picture of a woman actually nuzzling a crab hanging out of its shell. She was nose-to-nose with this crab and in sheer ecstasy. I imagined the photo was snapped just seconds before the crab tweaked her nose, or abandoned his shell and moved into her nose.

According to the hermit crab sites, we weren’t giving Charlie and Tracy their due, which is probably what caused Tracy to get nuts. Apparently, we needed to drop some serious bread – not toast crumbs – on a swank new “crabitat” for the murderous Tracy. We were also encouraged to buy some expensive coconut grass for “her” to traipse around on and warned only to allow our crab bottled water, since it doesn’t contain chlorine. Sure, the wife, kids, dogs and I all drink from the tap. The crab needs Evian. These folks even said we need to bathe the crab routinely in bottled water.

As if all this isn’t enough, the crab experts were also very concerned about “molting” and made several mentions of it. We should have some sort of “isolation tank” for Tracy when she molts. One of the signs of molting is that her eyes will become “crusty,” so that should help alert us to when it’s time to move her to the isolation chamber.

Reading the various hermit crab Web sites was like peering into an insane asylum. One woman wrote about how her 60 hermit crabs are “spoiled rotten,” and another had this suggestion: “To experience your crabs at the peak of their activity, I recommend you stay up one night or two with the lights down low in the room and watch them. They are absolutely fascinating.” And, unless I’m misreading things, one person seemed to advocate attracting fruit flies into one’s home for the hermit crabs to eat.

After reading these Web sites, I naturally wanted Tracy out of the house as soon as possible. We can’t take the chance that Ulysses or Ursula will become one of these hermit crab dorks. Fortunately, when I searched to see if anyone from Mobile has started a hermit crab club, no one has. I don’t want my kids to be first.

So this weekend we’re going to load Tracy up in the car and drive her out to the Causeway so she can be released into the wild. Hopefully she’ll forget her murderous ways, grow some eye crust and get down to some serious molting.

Rob Holbert is Lagniappe managing editor. Contact him at rholbert@lagniappemobile.com.

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