Yesterday afternoon, I noticed a small, flat-backed, gray-brown bug near the top of the kitchen sink.
"Bug," I said to Blair, pointing at it. (This is marital code for: "Deal with it.")
"That's Albert," said Blair. (Marital code for: "It's just a bug and I'm trying to make a sandwich and if it bothers you so much, you deal with it.")
I didn't want to deal with it, so Albert stayed. His presence quickly grew on us. About an hour later, I went to put a glass in the sink and noticed Albert had shifted position about a foot to the left.
"Hi, Albert," I said. I heard Blair offer a similar greeting when he returned to the kitchen for a snack.
Early evening, I go into the kitchen to make dinner. As I'm pouring steaming hot pasta water into the colander to drain the spaghetti, I see Albert perilously close to where the water is splashing up in the sink.
"Albert, look out!" I cried.
We were cleaning dishes up from dinner when I asked Blair what he thought Albert ate.
"I don't know that we need to carry it that far," he said.
Huh. In my book, if you name something, it's a pet for life and now you're responsible for it.
Which is why I'm sad to announce that Albert has disappeared. He was nowhere to be found this morning. Maybe we just didn't love him enough. Maybe he was bored. Or hungry.
Or maybe he was just a bug. But he was a good bug. Our bug.
We miss you, Albert.