Us, The Un-Caring Caregivers

Assuredly, the bulk of you 2171 readers have yet to be informed that Matt and I own pets. But in the dank catacombs of our apartment I assure that life, however meger, does exist here other than our own.
We've adopted two hermit crabs from out ever-gracious friends, the Glarrows, and have been adamantly hospitable to them for three months. However, tragedy has befallen us, as it typically does, and I must admit, at our own hands.
Our two crabs, a once happy couple, were named Sylvia Path (in the pink shell) and Special Agent Dale Cooper (in the leopard-print shell). These new names were applied after we'd decided that the earlier names, given by the Glarrows themselves (Pinky & Stinky), were not suitable for our largely retarded abode. They did sustain many happy months of shrimp food, moist-sponges and encyclopedia-formed mazes, and they were well happy.
But now, due to my negligence, Mrs. Plath is now dead. I threw her corpse in the wastebasket. I don't feel good about this, or even much remorseful, but I have to clarify that she spent a large amount of her time in the half-coconut shell in her cage, and I had no idea she was suffering. Now though, I'm happy to hear that she's in a better place: the dump.
Dale, however, is as happy as a fairy, and he now sits on the desk as I type this, nestled next to my High Life can. Ultimately, I think she was bad for him, as they incessantly argued, and she never left him a moment of free "crab-time".
I feel awful about her untimely death, as I'm sure the Glarrows do, but, really, what were you thinking giving Matt and I a responsibility? The dishes just got washed, and that was a chore.