(no subject)
I lost a friend recently.
She certainly wasn't my oldest friend, nor my newest. She was, however, the first friend I made in Alabama. And that's not something to snub your nose at, right?
She wasn't your average friend, either. She wasn't a person, for one. She wasn't even a mammal.
She was an octopus. She was the giant Pacific octopus we had at my job.
You know, when I first moved to Alabama, I didn't know anyone. I lived with people who, for whatever reason, didn't seem to like me, despite my efforts to be friends with them. I didn't have a car and I had no way of meeting people outside of work and my roommates. I was desperately trying to fit in in the South, with no sense of the well-known hospitality. I was seen as pushy and rushed and rude and I swore too much...I never meant to be so antagonistic. Making friends has always been difficult for me, but it felt like making friends in Birmingham was going to be impossible.
She arrived a few weeks after I did, in a big styrofoam container filled with water. When we put her in the tank and I got a good look at her for the first time, it was like...seeing an old friend. I'd helped take care of a few giant octopuses before my job in Birmingham and...she was something familiar. Someone familiar.
She was my only friend in Alabama for...a good while. She was there for me. When I was sad, or scared, or angry, I would go to her, and she would wrap her arms around mine, and look me in the eye, and it was almost like she was saying, "It's going to be all right. We got each other. It's going to be all right."
It always seemed like she was trying to start trouble. When we'd work on her tank, she'd try to steal the vacuum tube we'd use to clean the gravel. She would tear silicone sealant off the walls of her tank and throw sea stars around like a ninja. And she was always, *always*, trying to sneak out of her tank. We had to keep a big heavy lid on her tank that we'd lock down when we weren't working on it. But when we had the top open, she would sling her arms over the edge and haul herself out of the water. I would have to grab as many appendages as I could to toss them back in, but she would always flop a few more over the edge. It was like it was a game to her or something. I would always tell her, annoyed and exasperated, "Sweetheart, there's nothing for you out here! Just air and concrete!" That never seemed to deter her, for whatever reason.
No one cared about her like I did. No one went to bat for her like I did. When they wanted to cut corners, do the bare minimum to keep her alive I said, "Fuck that. No. She deserves better than that." I met a lot of resistance ("Well, this is the way we've always done it") and there were so many times I wanted to pound my head against the wall in frustration. I wanted to give up and scream at my coworkers, "FINE. DON'T LISTEN TO ME. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD I KNOW, I ONLY SPENT THE LAST SIX YEARS OF MY LIFE LEARNING EVERYTHING I CAN ABOUT THESE ANIMALS. NO. IT'S COOL. DO A HALF-ASSED JOB. SEE IF I GIVE A SHIT." But then I would go clean her tank, stewing and angry and muttering swear words to myself, and she'd come sneaking out of her corner to be near me. She'd reach up, put a few of her arms on my hand and I would just...feel relief. *I'm doing all of this for her,* I would remind myself. *After everything she's done for me, I have to do this for her. I* have *to.* She would...calm me down. Until she decided to climb out of her tank. Again.
I don't think I would have made it this far into my time in Alabama had it not been for her.
But octopuses don't live forever. They have a notoriously short lifespan. Cephalopods are the rock stars of the ocean: they live fast and die young. Small, tropical octopuses live to be about eighteen months. Giant Pacifics live to be about two or three years. The big fancy aquariums, like Sea World and Georgia, with their money and staffing and all that bullshit, can get their giant Pacific octopuses to live to the ancient age of four or five.
Her health started declining months ago, when I put her age at around two. It's called senescence -- her body was literally starting to shut down on an enzymatic level. She stopped trying to crawl out of her tank. She stopped trying to steal stuff from our hands. She stopped coming out of her corner to see us.
I still did my best to keep her company, even though she made it clear she didn't want me around. When I would touch my fingers to her suckers, she would push me away. She would spit water at me and turn a deep shade of red. I didn't let that deter me. I started to sing to her whenever I would clean her tank. I might have been imagining things, but I think she was less grumpy with me when I would sing songs about the ocean, particularly ones about people getting eaten by whales and giant squids.
One day, she didn't eat as much as she usually did. A few weeks later, she ate even less than that. Then she started biting her food and spitting it out. And then came the day when she stopped eating entirely.
That was a few months ago. And...you know...you can only go so long without eating anything.
I'm currently seeing family in California and I was visiting the local aquarium here in my hometown when I got the call. I was actually standing in front of their giant Pacific octopus tank. Their octopus was huge...not small and scrawny. It was a gorgeous shade of red-orange...not a mottled brown. With big, golden eyes...not black and sunken.
And as my coworker broke the news, the octopus in the tank in front of me moved out of her corner and plastered a few of it's arms on the glass. As I felt my heart...completely shatter, there was also a sense of...relief. She had been in a bad way for a long time and it was hard to see one of my most beloved friends waste away into...nothing. A shadow of her former self. My octopus no longer looked like the octopus in the tank in front of me. She didn't act like it, either. And I realized, in that moment, that her bright and beautiful spirit left us months ago. We've just been taking care of a body.
It doesn't make this any less painful. The next few weeks are going to suck. I'm dreading when I walk past her tank for the first time since returning from California. I know what will happen: I'll suddenly realize her tank is empty, and for a moment, I'll panic -- *where is she, where did she go, is she hiding somewhere I can't see her, oh shit, did someone leave the top open, did she crawl out* -- and then, like a kick to the stomach, I'll remember.
But honestly? I lost her...at a really excellent point in my life to lose a friend, as strange as that sounds. I'm no longer by myself in Alabama anymore. I've got a group of wonderful, amazing, supportive people in my life. And when I'm sad, or scared, or angry, I can go to *them* now, and they take my hands in theirs, and they look me in the eye, and they tell me, "It's going to be all right. We got each other, it's going to be all right." It's like...she came into my life when I needed her most, and left me when I would be OK without her.
I'll miss you, my sweet octopus. I'll always miss you.
She certainly wasn't my oldest friend, nor my newest. She was, however, the first friend I made in Alabama. And that's not something to snub your nose at, right?
She wasn't your average friend, either. She wasn't a person, for one. She wasn't even a mammal.
She was an octopus. She was the giant Pacific octopus we had at my job.
You know, when I first moved to Alabama, I didn't know anyone. I lived with people who, for whatever reason, didn't seem to like me, despite my efforts to be friends with them. I didn't have a car and I had no way of meeting people outside of work and my roommates. I was desperately trying to fit in in the South, with no sense of the well-known hospitality. I was seen as pushy and rushed and rude and I swore too much...I never meant to be so antagonistic. Making friends has always been difficult for me, but it felt like making friends in Birmingham was going to be impossible.
She arrived a few weeks after I did, in a big styrofoam container filled with water. When we put her in the tank and I got a good look at her for the first time, it was like...seeing an old friend. I'd helped take care of a few giant octopuses before my job in Birmingham and...she was something familiar. Someone familiar.
She was my only friend in Alabama for...a good while. She was there for me. When I was sad, or scared, or angry, I would go to her, and she would wrap her arms around mine, and look me in the eye, and it was almost like she was saying, "It's going to be all right. We got each other. It's going to be all right."
It always seemed like she was trying to start trouble. When we'd work on her tank, she'd try to steal the vacuum tube we'd use to clean the gravel. She would tear silicone sealant off the walls of her tank and throw sea stars around like a ninja. And she was always, *always*, trying to sneak out of her tank. We had to keep a big heavy lid on her tank that we'd lock down when we weren't working on it. But when we had the top open, she would sling her arms over the edge and haul herself out of the water. I would have to grab as many appendages as I could to toss them back in, but she would always flop a few more over the edge. It was like it was a game to her or something. I would always tell her, annoyed and exasperated, "Sweetheart, there's nothing for you out here! Just air and concrete!" That never seemed to deter her, for whatever reason.
No one cared about her like I did. No one went to bat for her like I did. When they wanted to cut corners, do the bare minimum to keep her alive I said, "Fuck that. No. She deserves better than that." I met a lot of resistance ("Well, this is the way we've always done it") and there were so many times I wanted to pound my head against the wall in frustration. I wanted to give up and scream at my coworkers, "FINE. DON'T LISTEN TO ME. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD I KNOW, I ONLY SPENT THE LAST SIX YEARS OF MY LIFE LEARNING EVERYTHING I CAN ABOUT THESE ANIMALS. NO. IT'S COOL. DO A HALF-ASSED JOB. SEE IF I GIVE A SHIT." But then I would go clean her tank, stewing and angry and muttering swear words to myself, and she'd come sneaking out of her corner to be near me. She'd reach up, put a few of her arms on my hand and I would just...feel relief. *I'm doing all of this for her,* I would remind myself. *After everything she's done for me, I have to do this for her. I* have *to.* She would...calm me down. Until she decided to climb out of her tank. Again.
I don't think I would have made it this far into my time in Alabama had it not been for her.
But octopuses don't live forever. They have a notoriously short lifespan. Cephalopods are the rock stars of the ocean: they live fast and die young. Small, tropical octopuses live to be about eighteen months. Giant Pacifics live to be about two or three years. The big fancy aquariums, like Sea World and Georgia, with their money and staffing and all that bullshit, can get their giant Pacific octopuses to live to the ancient age of four or five.
Her health started declining months ago, when I put her age at around two. It's called senescence -- her body was literally starting to shut down on an enzymatic level. She stopped trying to crawl out of her tank. She stopped trying to steal stuff from our hands. She stopped coming out of her corner to see us.
I still did my best to keep her company, even though she made it clear she didn't want me around. When I would touch my fingers to her suckers, she would push me away. She would spit water at me and turn a deep shade of red. I didn't let that deter me. I started to sing to her whenever I would clean her tank. I might have been imagining things, but I think she was less grumpy with me when I would sing songs about the ocean, particularly ones about people getting eaten by whales and giant squids.
One day, she didn't eat as much as she usually did. A few weeks later, she ate even less than that. Then she started biting her food and spitting it out. And then came the day when she stopped eating entirely.
That was a few months ago. And...you know...you can only go so long without eating anything.
I'm currently seeing family in California and I was visiting the local aquarium here in my hometown when I got the call. I was actually standing in front of their giant Pacific octopus tank. Their octopus was huge...not small and scrawny. It was a gorgeous shade of red-orange...not a mottled brown. With big, golden eyes...not black and sunken.
And as my coworker broke the news, the octopus in the tank in front of me moved out of her corner and plastered a few of it's arms on the glass. As I felt my heart...completely shatter, there was also a sense of...relief. She had been in a bad way for a long time and it was hard to see one of my most beloved friends waste away into...nothing. A shadow of her former self. My octopus no longer looked like the octopus in the tank in front of me. She didn't act like it, either. And I realized, in that moment, that her bright and beautiful spirit left us months ago. We've just been taking care of a body.
It doesn't make this any less painful. The next few weeks are going to suck. I'm dreading when I walk past her tank for the first time since returning from California. I know what will happen: I'll suddenly realize her tank is empty, and for a moment, I'll panic -- *where is she, where did she go, is she hiding somewhere I can't see her, oh shit, did someone leave the top open, did she crawl out* -- and then, like a kick to the stomach, I'll remember.
But honestly? I lost her...at a really excellent point in my life to lose a friend, as strange as that sounds. I'm no longer by myself in Alabama anymore. I've got a group of wonderful, amazing, supportive people in my life. And when I'm sad, or scared, or angry, I can go to *them* now, and they take my hands in theirs, and they look me in the eye, and they tell me, "It's going to be all right. We got each other, it's going to be all right." It's like...she came into my life when I needed her most, and left me when I would be OK without her.
I'll miss you, my sweet octopus. I'll always miss you.