Every morning I do "pet rounds." Pet rounds includes: feeding, changing boxes, brushing, handling etc...

This morning was different. Something was amiss. My hermit crabs were missing. Not dead, not deceased, not "ex-crabs", but flat missing. My new hermit crabs, in their expensive "hermitat". NO CRABS! S*%T!

So the search begins. Bookshelves were checked. Nothing. Shoes were checked. Nada. Then I hear Scott tapping up the walkway in his bike "stilettos." [Road bike shoes. They have cleats. You're not supposed to walk in them. Is it my fault walking in them is like walking in backward high heels? Chicks are weird. -Ed.]

Me:"Hi!" *scaring Scott at the door in the process* "Guess what happened?!?"

Scott, with the deep sigh of one long used to living in the "land of the misfit pets": "Who died?"

Me: "Err... no one. My hermit crabs are gone!"

Scott: *blink, blink* "Okay... have you checked the washroom?"

Eureeka! The washroom! No... damn! No crabs there.

Then I see Magrat sitting in front of the coat closet. "YeerRRAwOOww!! BrrYarrow!!!"

Me: "WOOHOO! Mags! The closet!" As I opened the door, I saw a seashell suddenly tuck down and wobble still. Like a quarter "wop-wop-wob-wob-wobwobing." You could almost hear this tiny voice peeping, "Crabs? No, no crabs here, just us seashells! Just us quiet, still, unassuming seashells... ah, crap, frikken cat!" One down, one to go.

Three hours later...

Scott: "Find your other crab yet?"

Me: "Nope. Magrat is not doing her job. She's being lazy, watching birds in the window again. I'll have to check late tonight when they're active and see if he comes out."

An hour later and I'm hanging my purse on the coat rack and happen to look down. Again, suddenly I'm confronted with what, on the beach, would be the ultimate in stealth craft, a simple empty seashell. But nature never equipped hermit crabs for tile floors. If they did, the little buggers would look like self-propelled beer cans or something. As it stands, I was once more looking at something desperately trying to become part of the scenery. "This is Not the Crab You Are Looking for," I swear I could see a tiny claw extending out of his shell, waving vaguely in the air, "You Can Go About Your Business. Move Along, Move Along."

Me: "HERMIE!"

The tank has gone from a minimum security dormitory to a maximum security prison. No unscreened air holes. No unmasked power cords (for lights, heaters, etc.) No ladders, and all spoons have been taken from the crabs to ensure they cannot dig their way out.

Anyone who thinks crabs are dumb has never owned one. I'm half tempted to put a combo lock on their door, but since they have nothing else to do, I'd not be at all surprised to find they'd figured the combination some day. Better to simply overpower the problem.

Now to find some bricks for the lid...