Back in the early ’90s, I had a pet ochre starfish. It lived in a 50-gallon tank in the garage. Room temp, nothing fancy. It was one of the weirdest, coolest animals I’ve ever kept.

We fed it live Manila clams. Bought them from the Asian market. Just a couple at a time.

The starfish didn’t do much most days. Just parked itself in a corner like a grumpy lump of orange Play-Doh. But drop in a clam on the other side of the tank? Showtime!

Its arm tips would lift. Tube feet swinging like antennae. Somehow, it could smell the clam. Or sense it. With all five arms raised, it locked onto the scent. Then it moved. Not fast by normal standards. But fast for a starfish. Purposeful. Creepy. It knew exactly which direction to go based on the scent.

Once it reached the clam, it got to work. Engulfed it. Injected some kind of muscle relaxer. Waited. The shell popped open. Two hours later, clam guts gone. Just an empty shell left behind.

Watching it was hypnotic. A blob on the move. Silent. Precise. Like a slow-motion ballet. But with more suction cups and digestion.

Only downside? The guy behind the counter at the Asian market always gave us a look. Like, who buys just two clams?

Still worth it.

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