The seahorse in me.

I pooped a seahorse.

Finances have been tight recently. I eat my fridge and cupboards down to their framework in-between paychecks, and last week, I ran down to nothing. 

After eating the half-full remains of a Tums container, and travel-size bottle of Neosporen, I panned throughout my condo looking for anything else. That search brought me eye-to-eye with my pet seahorse, Harris...

I purchased Harris in 2009 after my long-time girlfriend of four-and-half months, Tilda Portugal, broke-up our relationship, and consequently molested my heart and soul with devious strokes of selfishness and disconcern for my feelings.

Tilda insisted that it was my obsession with watching Jeopardy, and elaborately cussing-out Alex Trebek every time he responded to an incorrect answer with a pretentious mouth-fart of a correction. Can't stand the guy. He looks like he smells like powdered latex gloves and basil. He should have kept is mustache, at least when you looked at him back then, and didn't like what you saw, you could say, "Oh... mustache guy... yeah, he's not serious. Probably a decent guy if you got to know him...". But without it, there's no excuse for who and how he is.

She also blamed the decay of our relationship on my disdain for the dentist. Every once in a while, I'll lose a tooth in bed while I'm sleeping. Tilda got grossed out when she woke up with a pain in her back, only to realize she had been sleeping on one of my molars. Hey, adult, when you share a bed with someone, you share a common space. If that was her "thing", I'd learn to live with it.

Anyway, I got lonely. Quick. Initially, I borrowed my neighbor's dog, Penis, when he aimlessly trotted in front of my driveway with a butter knife in his mouth. It was okay, but I couldn't stand having dog poop and urine all over my condo. I don't know how dog owners deal with that. Also, my next door neighbor, Mable Seasons, was weeping over her lost dog around-the-clock. After growing tired of all that, I eventually tossed him outside and vowed never to have a dog again.

I strolled into the pet store near my condo, it's right in-between a bagel shop and an adult store called "Slick".

The pet store attendant was the smallest woman in the world. She had a shaved head, tiny furious breasts, and wore an apron with the name of the store, "Happy Paws", drawn across it. She walked like her feet were magnetized to the ground, laborious efforts to yank each foot off the ground, and it took her whole body to do so. 

She asked me if she could help me find anything, I said, "Yes". She asked me what she could help me find, I said, "A pet". She asked me what kind of pet I was looking for, I said, "An easily-dispensable one". She didn't like that, but reluctantly pointed at the fish aisle.

Fish are so stupid looking. I looked at a couple of gold ones, hated them. But, I eventually arrived in front of a tank with a seahorse in it. I liked it because it reminded me of an appendage-less dog that looks like a horse/air-horn that was trapped in an intense apartment fire. I fell in love.

I brought Harris home and put him in a tank filled with rocks and a miniature replica football helmet. We would read our Playboy articles together every night over a warmed glass of milk and wine. I would grab him and put him in a water-filled ziplock bag so that he could sleep in my bed with me every night. That routine was tough to get used to because I had to set an alarm to fire every 15-minutes so that I could blow air bubbles into his sack through a bendy-straw. But, that was Harris and I; two pee in a pod.

Last week was tough. My ravenous hunger overwhelmed my reasoning ability. I slowly approached Harris's tank, put one hand gently against the glass, bent weakly at the knees, and dropped my height down to his eye-level. He looked pleasant.

Tears formed in my eyes, as I knew what I had to do. Harris wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He would have done anything for me, it was that kind of relationship. And so it was. He made the ultimate sacrifice. In one of my most vulnerable moments in life, I ate him. My seahorse, my best friend.

The hardest part wasn't eating Harris, in fact, I prepared him in a lovely pan sauce with white wine, shallots, butter, and garlic. The hardest part was pooping Harris. Eating, and consequently pooping your best friend is an experience that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

As I saw him for the last time lying in the base of the toilet, the white water-filled porcelain backdrop was surprisingly serene, he looked like an angel. His eyes were closed, and he had his signature Harris-grin smeared across his little air-horn mouth.

I weeped as I triggered the flush and watched him spiral out of sight, and off to heaven. I'm not proud of it, and I think about him every day.

It will be some time before I consider getting another seahorse. I will struggle to get over Harris, and I'm also concerned about how easy it was for me to eat him.

Until next time: Your life is in a terrible trend, if you are willing to eat, and poop, your best friend.