Dale died. She was a snail.
No sympathy, please. She was a snail!
Still, she was more than a limp excuse for today’s essay.
I’ve had aquariums for years – in my childhood bedroom, in my college apartment, later in homes.
More recently, after moving for a job, and while living alone for months, I bought a 5.5-gallon aquarium.
Dale was its first inhabitant. She cost $3 at a big-box pet store. I like to think I rescued her.
She was brown with yellow stripes, about a half-inch across – a nerite snail, popular with aquarists for eating algae.
Unlike other aquarium snails, nerites are single-sexed and don’t reproduce in captivity, although not for not trying. Dale deposited unfertilized white eggs all over, confirming her sex.
I don’t name aquarium inhabitants. But I named Dale and her sole tankmate – Sully, a fish. From across the room, I’d watch her cruise along the glass or a piece of sunken wood.
“There goes Dale,” I’d think.
Or, aloud: “Good evening, Dale.”
I miss her, my companion during my months of loneliness. Rest in peace.
