A Perfectly Acceptable Pet
There’s been a lot of talk about deep-sea squid lately, and not the usual kind you hear at office parties or the corner deli either. It seems the Japanese are claiming to be the first ever to film this elusive creature in the murky depths of the North Pacific. (Oh they’re quite pleased with themselves - just ask them about it, they’ll go on for hours.) These so called “scientists” spent thousands of dollars on high tech equipment (cameras) and state-of-the-art gadgets (snorkels) to make a short movie about something that can easily be seen right in the middle of my living room for five dollars and a phone call. (Alright, three if you’re going to be all cheap about it.)
That’s right, I have a squid. I’ve had one ever since my doctor recommended acceptance therapy for my cephalophobia. (That means “squid fear,” it said so right on the bill.) Apparently cozying up to a gigantic rubber tube with flesh-ripping suckers and a snappy little beak is a head doctor’s idea of good medicine. Oh, it works, don’t get me wrong. It took a while to get over all of the ink stains and swarms of seagulls, but after three weeks of serious bonding, I’ve found giant squid make pretty nice pets. That’s more than you can say for a box of clams, who just sit around looking doleful and limp. I mean, you don’t see clams wrapping their tentacles around you in a display of affection, because clams are too haughty to even own tentacles. You wouldn’t get that attitude from a sea squid, no sir! You see, not only are squid warm and loving, they also do tricks - like flail about and wrestle furniture. And unlike a sperm whale, they’re not hard to care for. All they require is a bucket of krill and three gentle mistings a day.
Come to think of it, I don’t know why it took these scientists so many years just to get a glimpse of a giant squid. All I had to do to was dive 900 meters underwater with a plane ticket and a plate full of scrod to coax it ashore. (It’s not like they’re picky you know, they’ll go after anything offering first-class travel and hot meal.) I can tell you just as plain as day those scientists were ignoring me. They would have saved a lot of time if they’d asked about my capturing technique. But did they? No. And do they plan to? No. Will I ring them up and tell them I have a 20 foot sea squid lying next to my credenza? Maybe. Just as soon as I’m done locating the phone, that is. You see, Charlotte, this pet squid of mine, is a nervous eater and anything with a cord just sets her off. In fact, if you buy a five dollar ticket at the front door you can watch her eat the toaster. (Ok, four if it’s in advance.)