A Tale of Two Fishies

It was on my youngest daughter’s Christmas list for years.

Sometimes the specifics changed but the idea was the same: she wanted a fish. However, Santa and I found other things that we wanted her to have for Christmas. As a result, the area under the Christmas tree was fishless for years and years. 

In my defense, it was because I was running a daycare and knew that fish = water on the ground = dead fish. There would have been a fishie or two going home in some 3-year-old’s pocket, I can guarantee you. 

She got the hint and stopped asking.

Fast forward quite a few years. We moved to Rockford in 2007, and three years later, at the age of 18, guess what showed up on her Christmas list again.  

In a fantastic case of synchronicity, guess who was looking for just one more present for her youngest daughter. 

I caved. She was thrilled. 

Enter: The Betta and his cool-dude new fish pad. Tragically, he died about one month into his new accommodations. Being the thoughtful, loving, caring, sympathetic mother that I am, I got her a new improved Beta at Petsmart in Rockford, all the while offering her obviously much needed advice on how this one should be taken care of.  

I’m helpful like that. 

New Boy? He was cool, he was colorful, and he was a novelty…for about three months.  

After that, Betta was not quite so exciting. I would put a stack of clean, folded clothes on her bed and turn to leave and see Senor Fish hiding in the faux reeds at the bottom of the bowl because of the stagnant layer (not film, mind you, but layer) of goo on top of his bowl. The level of fish food never seemed to change. She didn’t talk about his pretty colors anymore. The fish affair was over. 

When I casually and helpfully mentioned the fish would die if she didn’t change the water in the bowl and feed it, she casually shrugged her shoulders. “I should just flush him right now, then.” 

He is now my fish. His name is Jaws. 

I have taken good care of him for the past 14 months. Unfortunately, there is a look in his poor little fish eye telling me that if he sees the light, he’s damn well going into it, no question. 

Recently, I moved Jaws into a smaller fish bowl. My husband calls it the hospice fishbowl.     

As usual, I think he’s right.