He was a Dynastes Tityus that my classmates gave to me in the 5th grade. One morning late in the spring, I arrived at school, to be greeted and given him. He was inside a little empty plastic ham container, accompanied by some sort of biscuit/bread. They told me that they had found him crawling on the sidewalk outside, and knowing my interest in bugs, they captured him and kept him for me. (Even back then I was known for that. I was the one to provide and keep Armadillidiidae for use in some science class projects, and I was the one that was always called upon to carry a beetle or spider outside whenever one was found in a classroom. I also remember being the one to protest the squishing of spiders occasionally found on walls.)
I was delighted, since I found him to be fascinating. He was so large, and I had never seen a bug with such an interesting shape before. Later that day, when I arrived home, I ignored my usual routine of doing schoolwork, and instead excitedly prepared a more permanent enclosure for him. My solution? A gallon ice cream bucket. It was the largest container I had available at the time, and it would be what he lived in for the majority of the rest of his life. I poked several holes in the lid, and I put an inch layer of dirt in the bottom. Another little important detail is that I took a rock I found outside and placed it in there too, as decoration of sorts. I placed him in it, and then I did a quick google search to find out what he actually ate. (I had the faint idea that he didn't actually eat bread, but what exactly, I did not know.) Afterwards, I sliced up an orange and placed it in the bucket. He crawled onto it and began feeding. I watched with fascination, before proudly showing him off to my mother and grandmother (the latter was staying at our home at the time for a temporary visit).
When it came to naming him, I oh-so-creatively named him Spike, for reasons I'm sure you'll never be able to guess~
Every day I opened up the bucket to watch Spike with wonder. I also checked how his orange slice was doing, making sure to give him a new one if he needed it. Every other day, I would handle him, picking him up and just letting him crawl around on my hand and arms. I thought that the sensation of his claws against my skin was interesting, if not nice, and it was entertaining to feel him grabbing onto my arm with a grip that made it so I couldn't tear him off me without suffering a decent amount of pain from scratches.
For the last month or so of school that I had while I owned Spike, I also took him to school with me every day. I would transfer him to the smaller plastic container that he had been in when I received him, with a proper layer of dirt and some food. My teachers allowed me to keep him nearby. (I was the class nerd/teacher's pet anyways, usually getting the best grades out of my class in almost every subject; it's not like my teachers were worried that my grades would suffer too much or anything.)
Sometimes I was even allowed to let Spike "participate" in some class activities. I have a memory of once playing a board game with a couple classmates to review some topic. The method for choosing how many squares the pieces moved was by a little spinner on the board. As a result, Spike got to "play" as well - he got his own little piece to move, and I would spin for him. Whenever it came to answering the questions, I would frame it as a yes or no question when reading it to him, and then I would tell him to move for yes and stay still for no. My teacher would walk by and see this, and think it silly, but nonetheless allowed it. (Sadly, I do not remember whether Spike won that game or not.)
Once while riding home on the bus, I took him out of the container to let some of my friends see him. For whatever reason, I soon after I had the brilliant idea of letting him crawl in my hair. Then I realized that my stop was approaching, and I panicked. And then... I forgot what happened next.
Another random memory: one time, Spike managed to escape. I left his container open after handling him without realizing it, and so I went to bed that night thinking that he was in his bucket like usual. As I lay there in the dark, eyes closed, trying to fall asleep, I suddenly heard a loud buzzing/flapping of sorts above me. I was terrified, paralyzed by fear as I squeezed my eyes shut and my heart raced.
You see, at the time, I was into the Spiderwick chronicles. Like, really into it, since, well... I had read the field guide for that book series shortly before this event, and I believed that it was actually real. As absurd as it was, indeed, it was true - that ominous little note supposedly written by Spiderwick (or whichever old dude had discovered and written about those fantastical creatures, I don't remember their name) about how oh-so-secret-but-true it all was that prefaced the guide had convinced me.
So, when I heard the buzzing/flapping above me, instead of suspecting the more probably cause (Spike), I thought that it was one of those little evil boggle fairies or whatever. And, from what I remembered in the guide, they didn't like being seen, so I kept my eyes shut and waited until the buzz had moved on to another room to open them. Oh, how dumb I had been. If only I had opened my eyes; then, perhaps in the glow of my night light I would have managed to have seen Spike in flight for the first (and only) time.
The next morning I checked the bucket, only to find him gone. I freaked out, and was worried the whole day, until I chanced upon him mid-day. I had opened the door to head outside and do some quick gardening work; when I came back, I saw him clinging to the door frame. Had someone come by and closed the door, Spike would've been crushed in between the door and the door frame. Thank goodness no one did, however, and so I was thus able to keep him a little longer.
Alas, it was only a little longer, indeed. One day during summer vacation, I took Spike outside with me to play around a bit. I got carried away, and I left him alone for a while. When I returned, it was because the day had become miserably hot and sunny, and I wanted to rest in the shade a bit. I realized that I had left Spike's bucket outside, in the sun, on a metal surface, with the lid on, and so I opened it up to check on him. To my surprise, he was stiff and still. Scared, I brought him inside where it was cooler, and I misted a little water on him in the naive hope that he was "just a little dry" or something and "would loosen up shortly". I watched him worriedly, yearning to see him move, but... as time passed by, my hopes started to falter, and I eventually had to face the truth.
Due to my carelessness, I had killed Spike.
Oh how I howled and cried when I realized that. I was sobbing as I took a little shovel and dug a tiny grave for him in our backyard. The rest of the day I was constantly on the verge of tears, and the day after I was just sad the whole time.
Nowadays, his memory is a source of fondness and nostalgia, tinted with a hint of guilt and sadness. I still have his rock, which is currently located within my tank of insects.
Writing all this, I can't help but recall something.
Once, many many years ago, when Spike was still alive, as I was checking on him in the morning like usual, my father told me that I loved that bug. I told him that that was nonsense, for I found the idea to be absurd and embarrassing.
Oh, what a fool I had been.
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