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I was born on July 5,1867 and I am now 147 years old! I live about 400 years. The youngest one of us that has ever lived is 200 years. The oldest one of us that has ever lived is 600 years. I just moved away from my parents and am trying to find a new beach to live on. Finally I find a rocky beach and dig a huge hole to live in. Although there are many small pebbles covering the beach, part of it is covered with soft, smooth sands. This is a perfect place for clams.
I might still have to move away if there are no clams here. I fly down the beach. Thank god it is low tide. I see some clams underground. My eyes are like metal detectors, only they find clams not metal. I can see about 20 centimeters under ground. Keep in mind that I'm only a centimeter tall and two centimeters long, so that’s pretty deep to me. I have little tiny spikes on the mohawk on my back, exactly eight of them.
Here comes a mosquito. I shoot one of my spikes at the mosquito. It soars through the air and stabs the mosquito straight on its back. At least all the other bugs that can actually see me don't care about me so I don't waste any of the poisonous spikes. That’s what I think. The actual reason is, it’s probably not enough food for them. I can’t waste any of them because they take a day to grow back.
I go back up to my hole to sleep for the night. Each hole that is dug is about 40 to 70 centimeters deep. I like to dig mine about 60 centimeters deep. I’m a really good digger, my claws are like four little shovels on my legs, so digging a hole is no problem. There are a lot of little tiny swerving pathways all through my house. I have a big opening where I sleep and another before the entrance, so an animal would look in my hole and say, “Oh well, nothings here so I’ll move on.” They don’t see the tiny hole in the corner where I always am.
I’m too small to go very fast so I have to fly to get places at any speed. I scramble out of my hole. I’ll go gather food for the night. Day is almost over and I’m starving to death. I swiftly fly down the rocky beach. The sand gets soft and I’m ready to dig. I dig sideways so I can stay underground where nothing can get to me fast enough to catch me before I notice. I find three clams so far. I can store four on my nonpoisonous spikes. It feels like 3 25 pound weights on my back. I put them on the spikes on my back. I find the fourth and trudge back up to my hole, my pointy feet slicing into the sand, making two paths all the way from the clams to my hole. I scarfe one down. I’m starting to realize how hard it is to survive in the wild. I’m used to mom and dad running around everywhere to get me things that I want. I should have listened to their stories about surviving instead of ignoring them and slowly walking off.
I need a way to find my way from my home to theirs, but there’s no hope. The next morning I stay in my hole to be safe till about the middle of the day. I also eat some clams that were stored away during the night for energy. That was the time that I thought I should dig a huge room to store clams in and go get the top of a can to help block the path. I dig another pathway to a huge room. I walk outside to get the top of the can. About an hour later, I find it a long way from where I found it before. I bring it back to my hole. I put the can top in the room where you first come in. I fly out of my hole and dig up eight clams this time. I remember that mom said when you get some clams, you can stick four more on each set of claws.
The last half of my day has been really hard for me. 16 clams, four times back and forth along the beach looking for the can top. The next morning for a change I poke my head up and look out at the water that seem to stretch forever and think, I have a long life ahead of me.