Domesticated Shrimp

"Honey, please, don't carry the kitchen trash through the house." I say, but Rob clutches the trash can liner and disappears into our bedroom. After a moment, he reappears, pads across the living room and out the front door. He leaves a trail of tiny wet spots.

Arms crossed over my chest, I'm waiting when he gets back. "Dammit Rob. Bags leak. People do not carry trash bags across carpet."

At his blank look, heat prickles the back of my neck. I stab a finger toward a series of small stains. There's a similar trail between the kitchen and the lanai.

"Don't worry," he says, "When Simon's gone, I'll buy you new carpet."

"The dog," I hiss, "Is not the problem."

Puzzled, he looks at me. "What do you mean?"

I press a finger against a blood vessel to keep it from bursting and point at the bait bucket in the middle of the den. "You're the problem."

"Oh that." His shoulders relax and he grins. "If I put the bait bucket on the tile, the bubbler is too loud. Besides, it's cooler in the house."

"They're Florida shrimp," I shout, "they don't care."