Fish Story

Although the title of this entry might imply that what you are about to read is exaggerated and enhanced for effect, believe me when I tell you the following story is based on absolute truth and verifiable fact. Viewer discretion is advised.

We became pet owners this weekend by default. Our girls won more live goldfish than should be legally allowed at the annual church carnival and, against my better judgment, we decided to bring them home. I mean, how hard could it be to care for goldfish?

Famous last words.

My husband graciously made a Wal-Mart run to purchase two fish bowls – one for each daughter – and fish food. The Ziploc bags were fine for temporary housing, but our new pets deserved a better life. The girls sprinkled food in the water-filled bowls and watched the fish open tiny mouths to take in the nourishment. By bedtime, each fish had been given a name like Orange-y and Cupcake.

We awoke the next morning to our youngest crying, “Buddy’s dead!” Sure enough, Buddy was floating on the surface of the water, and I was reminded of when I taught Sunday school years ago and a little boy was upset at the snack table because his pet fish had recently passed on. The boy next to him asked how he knew the fish had died, and he said, “He was just floating at the top and wouldn’t move” – to which the supportive friend (who was five going on fifty) nodded quietly and said, “That’s how you know.”

So we scooped Buddy out of the bowl and, being good parents, we did what anyone would do in our situation: base our next steps on an old Cosby Show episode. We gathered the family around the little scooping bowl and paid our respects to the pet we could not even keep alive for 24 hours. Our youngest said a prayer from school after heartbreakingly trying to feed the fish some food to revive him. Following the brief ceremony, we flushed Buddy down the toilet and our oldest daughter began bragging that none of her fish were dead. Our children are so competitive.

But the score is getting closer. By today, we were down to about six fish (out of a bazillion) that were hanging in there and defying all odds for survival in our death trap of a house. Swine flu, schwine flu. Something is killing our fish, and it’s quickly reaching pandemic proportions. It’s an outrage.

I suppose losing a goldfish – or entire schools of them – is a lesson in the circle of life for our children, but seriously…we couldn’t even make it a couple of days? Are you kidding me? I keep telling myself that you can love a fish but it can’t love you back – but then I remember the look in Buddy’s one visible eye as he lay floating. I think he loved us but just couldn’t express it.

Fortunately, our girls are coping well. After all, two days is not enough time to really get emotionally invested or attached. Plus, at the time of the first passing, they still had many other “fish in the sea” to care for. However, by the time I finish this post, we may have lost the remainder of the goldfish and gone back to our status as a pet-less family.

While I certainly wish no harm to any of God’s creatures, am I a bad mother for secretly being relieved?