Inchy the Caterpillar

This is not a reptard story.

This is a story about a new pet. His name is Inchy; Inchy the caterpillar. Actually, his name was Inchy. Now we just call him “squished.”

A few days ago my eight-year-old daughter found a green caterpillar in the garden and decided to make a pet of him so she placed him in a child’s bug catcher thingy and filled it with leaves and grass for him to gnaw on. She named him Inchy because she believed he was an inch worm. When I pointed out that he was in fact a caterpillar she didn’t seem to care.

Over the following three days, with my darling daughter’s tender love and care, Inchy thrived.

Last night my son, daughter, and daughter’s friend were all playing in the basement. Then we heard rapid thumping coming up the stairs coupled with hysterical crying. Being parents, we of course figured someone had just lost a limb or gouged out an eye.

My daughter had let Inchy out for a walk, but then she accidentally stepped on him and squished him. This made her sad.

Actually it did more than make her sad. It turned her into an inconsolable train wreck. Not only did the poor little bugger die, but she was the one who killed it and this fact devastated her. I don’t think I ever have to worry about her growing up to be a sociopath.

Seriously, she sobbed and sobbed. I’ve never seen anyone so devastated over the death of a bug before. Although I’m not really into killing things, I can admit to experiencing a certain perverse joy every time I swat a mosquito. I hate those little bastards and like making them die. In regards to caterpillars I am ambivalent.

Anyway, I knew what was coming: we were going to have to have a funeral for Inchy. We were going to bury him and have a little ceremony so we could all say goodbye and the healing could begin. I figured we could just dump him in a hole in the garden, say a few words, and he would turn into compost for the plants. You know, circle of life and all that.

I was wrong. After some debate, my daughter convinced us that Inchy deserved to be entombed in her bedroom. I am not making this up.

She went down to the basement and spent almost an hour creating a coffin out of colored popsicle sticks, hot glue, and tears. With her masterpiece complete, it fell to me to fill it with dirt from the garden. My wife and I went along with this because we figured that she would get over it in a couple of days and then we could relocate the rotting caterpillar corpse outside.

Then it came time to bury Inchy, who was oozing green slime from being stepped on. My daughter gingerly picked him up to put him in his dirt-filled coffin thing and all of a sudden he started moving.

Then all hell broke loose.

“WAAAAAH! He’s alive! WAAAAH!”

Okay, I’ll admit to being confused at this point. “What’s wrong, sweetie? I thought you’d be happy that he’s alive.”

“WAAAAH! I was going to bury him aliiiiiivvveeeee-wah-ah! I’m a terr-terr-terrible p-p-p-perso-o-o-o-n-n-nuh! WAAAH!”

Actually, I’m the terrible person for writing this – for making fun of my daughter’s genuine misery. In my own defense, I wish to note that my wife was having a hard time containing her mirth through most of this scenario. I mean really, we are talking about a bug here.

Anyway, Inchy is back in his bug catcher thing. My daughter is sleeping in her brother’s room tonight because she is too emotionally devastated to be alone. Personally, I don’t think Inchy is going to pull through. I’d be surprised if he lasted the night. I’m wondering if I should go outside and root through the garden to find one of a similar size to replace him with.

The irony of the situation is that my daughter seems to have little problem with feeding a dozen wormerpillars at a time to the reptard. I guess she doesn’t allow herself to get emotionally attached to those poor little buggers.

Considering how upset she got over this whole Inchy debacle, I can’t imagine what she would be like if anything ever happened to Spiky. I never thought I’d say this, but that little reptard better live a long time.

Post Script
Perhaps I should call that a post mortem, because Inchy didn’t make it. Here’s his grave in case you wish to pay your respects:

I wish to note that I waited a few days after his passing before posting this story because my daughter was still upset. What’s more, I actually sought her permission to share this story because I didn’t want to use her grief as fodder for my blog. She’d gotten over Inchy and was fine with me posting this, although she wanted to make sure that I told everyone that it isn’t her crappy handwriting on Inchy’s headstone – her brother wrote it. I should also mention that her brother and I disagree on the proper way to spell Inchy.

Post-post Script
Apparently I’m not the only one who has tales of interesting child reactions to the death of a “pet.” One friend told me her kids wailed and cried over the death of one of their koi fish, but during the burial ceremony in the garden the seven-year-old daughter smacked her 10-year-old brother in the face with the dead fish. I’d say her grief was short-lived.

Yet another friend told me his two sons were playing tug-of-war with a worm and the little guy ripped in two. The younger brother was upset that he got the shorter end of the worm, whereas the older brother was pissed because he was convinced that his part of the worm was the “ass” end. The result was that he also had two crying kids because of the death of a bug, although for completely different reasons.

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