Sparky the Crawfish, you’ll be sad to know, is dead.

Sparky had a good life. At least I think he (or she) did. No, I don’t know how old he was. No, I don’t know where he was born. I don’t, in fact, know anything about his (or her) early days or anything prior to the time he showed up in my daughter’s science class last spring. Sparky was duly studied and then sent home to one lucky (and I use the term “lucky” loosely) child’s house to live.

So Sparky stayed with us in his tank, ate frozen bloodworms, and went into attack mode (see picture which is not, in fact, Sparky) whenever we tapped on the glass. He was a quiet pet. Not a lot of trouble. Never ran away. Was never eaten by the cats, for which we are grateful.

Last night, I presided over Sparky’s funeral and his, ah, burial (*COUGH*) and prayed that God would find a special cat-free place in heaven for a nice crawfish like Sparky.

Only two more days until Monday …