This morning I was upstairs on the computer when I heard shrieking and sobbing from the floor below. Oh no! I rushed down to find my younger daughter, Charlotte, hovered over her pet snails. (Yes, snails. And they are big and gross.)
"THEY ARE EATING EACH OTHER!" she was yelling, and sure enough, one of the snails seemed to be consuming the other in its shell. Foam dripped out the side. Worse yet, the victim was alive! Gah! Snail homicide!
So I grabbed the pair and tried to pull them apart. The aggressor held tight, jerk that she was. She wasn't giving up easily. So I ran them both under the faucet. Still she clung. That bitch. At this time, my mom ran in. ""Knock on the shell! Make her stop!' Clack clack clack I went.
By now my daughter was red-faced and drenched with tears. "SAVE HONEY! SAVE HONEY!" (Honey was the victim, Daisy the perpetrator.) I was getting those damn snails apart no matter what it took. I put them on the table and began prying one snail from the other with a spoon, hoping to save that poor nearly-eaten smaller one.
Finally, Daisy retreated, but it looked like the carnage was done. Thank God, after a few seconds, Honey began to move. Hooray! I'd saved her! I'd saved the day!
"Um, mom?" my nine-year-old said from the top of the stairs, "Maybe they were just mating."