Last week, just before I hopped in the shower, I noticed a giant water beetle perched on my towel, which was neatly folded on the rack. I don’t know much about beetles. Maybe it wasn’t a water beetle, but it was black, six legs, and about 2 inches long. Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to kill it and, knowing how cold it was outside, I knew throwing it outside would have been more cruel than smashing it.
It didn’t bother me and, at the moment, it’s just three dogs and myself living in this house. So I left it there. Actually I moved it to the towel I wouldn’t be using when I got out of the shower. I named it Ned. I don’t know why. Ned was missing one toe, not an entire leg, but just one toe. In the shower, I imagined how he could have lost it.
I never shut the door, but Ned stayed in the bathroom for about a week. Every day, as I walked in to turn on the shower, there he was. Sometimes he was on the floor, sometimes scaling the wooden wall of my countertop, sometimes on the shower curtain, but mostly, he seemed to really enjoy hanging out on a damp towel. I always said hi.
Because I’m home alone, I don’t bother closing the bathroom door, even in the shower (actually I blast the record player from the living room and keep the door open so I can rock out). Anyway, for some reason one of the dogs always lays on the bathroom rug while I’m in there, eager to lick my wet feet when I get out. I assumed one day she would see Ned and gobble him up, but one morning I got out of the shower and they were both chillin’ on the rug together. As I drew the curtain open, it seemed as if they were in the middle of a conversation that I had interrupted.
Ned is now gone. I don’t know if he decided to go down the drain, or into the air vent, or into the cabinet, or chance it by heading outside—presumably the same way he got in. I’ve looked and I can’t find him. And this might sound silly, but when I walk into the bathroom, I find myself missing him.
Godspeed Ned, where ever you are.