I am sad to report that Kafka is no longer with us. I did the best I could; I watered him every few days (when I remembered) and put him in indirect sunlight (just like he wanted!) but he has crossed over.
I made the mistake of telling everyone at my apartment for a birthday celebration not to touch Kafka upon arrival. "HEED THESE WORDS: DO NOT touch his leaves! I know they are beautiful but RIFE with POISON! If you touch your mouth and sap is on your fingers your throat will close up and you will lose your ability to speak!" After that all they wanted to do was touch it/get other people to touch it. They would lure new arrivals into the kitchen and remark on how beautiful the leaves were, they look so soft and glossy, would you like to touch them? Boys.
After the birthday party started to wind down several gentleman, white knights really, decided it was time to get rid of the Death Plant. My last memory of Kafka is a blur of t-shirts and jeans as the sound of muffled laughter carried him down the stairwell, through the door, and into the great black night. The best friend turned to me, sadness visible on her face and stated, "You have never been able to keep a plant alive. Not one." The knights returned from battle, satisfied in slaying the Dieffenbchia dragon, giant grins on their faces. When I asked where he was taken, they relied, "We saved your life tonight."
Wherever you are Kafka, I hope you are in indirect sunlight and being watered every few days.
Although you are gone, you did not die in vain. If it wasn't for you, there is a strong possibility that all the dogs at the Anderson pound would be roaming the streets and all of us would have suffered through a karaoke rendition of "Who Let The Dogs Out."
Rest in Peace. I am sorry you fell victim to Black Thumb Beatty.