Drowned Fish

I wonder if our beloved dogs and cats and squirrels go over the rainbow bridge, our sweet, precious fish swim under it as they are flushed down the tunnel that surely only leads to that great big banquet in the sky.

I wonder.

R.I.P. to the small school of fish that the Parrish household attempted to keep alive. It’s a direct correlation of our life right now.

Some months ago, when that darned fair came to town, my middle love got the opportunity to go with a parent that is nicer than her own. (I gave birth to her, and the way I see it is that it’s my ticket-out-of-going-to-the-fair ever. I don’t owe her that luxury. Maybe she even owes ME. No? Come on… ) Anyhoo, a few goldfish ping-pong-throwing-in-the-bowl-games later, and she is the proud owner of not one, but two fish. She only won once, but somehow hit the jackpot of the game and got the fish with a sidecar . She named them “Pumpkin” and “Spice” because she is basic, and what self respecting almost pre-teen girl with a fair fish wouldn’t name them some cult-y seasonal term? She’s mine.

And you know what happens when you get a tender hearted girl a fish? You’re going to need a fish bowl. Fortunately for our girl, her Daddy is pretty tender hearted himself when it comes to living creatures (which is why he refuses to kill a roach, he claims), so he took that baby to PetSmart after our dinner of sushi. (And don’t dare that middle one to do anything for a dollar…no, they wouldn’t sashimi the goldfish.)

Now, I feel like you need to know if you go to get any sort of item for a pet in your life at PetSmart, be prepared to for the great inquisition. What kind of fish is this? Where did you obtain said fish? Oh, the fair…also known as a fish mill (in the most condescending tone). Where are you going to keep the fish? Are you prepared for the responsibility? And then…Oh, a goldfish cannot go into that fish bowl. It isn’t large enough. (FOR THE LOVE, WHY DO YOU EVEN SELL THE BOWLS? OH, FOR THE CARNIES.) You need proper water conditioners and a toy for the fish to entertain them. And don’t forget the food…we don’t recommend the low-end brand… these fish deserve better. So, $27.56 later, after prying the el-cheapo plastic fish bowl and gourmet flakes from the hands of a reluctant sales associate, we had a spot for Pumpkin and Spice.

Yuppy guppies.

Those two fish were as happy as clams.

Well, Christmas came and Christmas went. Not that fast and not that easy. After about four hundred tours of duty standing guard of my closet of presents like the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, two hundred other obligations, and all of the stress that comes with it, we became the proud owners of another living, breathing (yes, betta fish are gulpers-whowouldathunkit), creature. That’s what G’s boy wanted, a fish of his very own. And being that a grandmother purchased said living quarters for this creature, henceforth known as “Vader Betta,” this fish was even yuppier. He not only had a larger, filtered watery mansion, but plants! and rocks! and LED lights! and even more gourmet food! and his very own PERSONAL HEATER. Yes. You read that right. Vader had it all. The PetSmart employees love my mother.

Y’all know about middle children, right? They are competitive little boogs. Especially ours. SHE WILL NOT BE OUTDONE. Pooling her money (that’s sorta punny, right there), she requested a trip back to the PetSmart. She needed to move Pumpkin and Spice on up. A million questions later, we head home with a tank larger than her brother’s, and begin the process of setting up. After arranging the new digs for the fair fish, we transfer them to their new home. Apparently they weren’t ready. Kind of like winning the lottery and having no guidance with the spoils. They just couldn’t handle it. Because obviously we did nothing wrong.

And so, the next morning, Pumpkin and Spice went to their watery grave.

And middle child wanted more fish.

So, back to the PetSmart we go, ready to unload more dough. We took our water sample to be tested, and after determining that it was safe for new fish, we were asked lots of questions. And because we are honest people, we answered truthfully, and I kid you not, THEY WOULD NOT SELL US A FISH. We had a waiting period for our tank, since it was a new set up. Yes. Wait like we were buying a firearm. We left, but oldest child with a betta fish for the plastic bowl that was now vacant. (Apparently they are the most virile of all fishes so no wait time was required.)

After our waiting period was over, we went back to our second home and got two neon fish. Little brother tagged along this time and he got a snail for cleaning his tank. Following all instructions from the fish monger thisclosely, we introduced the fish to their new home. They seemed happy.

Until that morning. Nothing like a kid waking you up to a floater. (Any kind of floater for that matter.)

Returning to the scene of the money sink hole, with one dead fish in a plastic bag for proof, we received a replacement fish and a bill for another one because apparently the fish lady just thinks these fish like to school and we need ANOTHER one. She was sincerely hesitant to sell it though, because our tank was a half a gallon shy for these type of fish’s taste. I thanked her for her advice and answering my questions, and if I’m lying I’m dying but she said, “Anything to give these little guys a happy life.” Where even am I?

Got home and the other fish was floating. Middle child is now in tears and refuses to add the other fish to this water that must be toxic. Drive back to the fish exchange to seek help, complete with another water sample and another fish in a ziploc casket. The water comes back clear for move in for these fish we had gotten an hour ago and the employee that we now know on a first name basis encourages me to add more slime enzyme and give the new ones a chance.

So I did.

Next morning. More floaters. More tears. We can’t keep fish alive. (This will be added to the list of things my child will need therapy for later in life. Yes. A list. We’re human. I just hope her therapist reminds her that we did keep her alive, however.)

I dump out the water and wash all the stuff in the tank and set it all up again. I’m not going down like this.

Back to PetSmart to show them I mean business. Do not judge me PetSmartians! I demand fish. I have more questions to answer. A new one this time: what is the ambient temperature of your house? (OK. This had gotten ridiculous. There is no way on this beautiful earth that my husband was going to adjust the thermostat for a fish. )

68 degrees, ma’am.

(Audible scoff) The temp of the water in the tank couldn’t be over 74 then, which is the optimum temperature for these finned friends. Don’t y’all have a thermometer in it?

We do.

What’s it read?

hesitantly…70…ish

Well there you go. You need a heater. You’ve been shocking your fish to death.

We left, with three replacement fish, a snail, and a heater. Those three are still swimming the waters of Lake Parrish.

Fins crossed.

As this goes to press, over the course of the day, our oldest’s betta has now turned ashen and is moving like it needs a walker. And it has it’s own personal heater, so what could it possibly be this time?

Anybody got a fair fish and a plastic bowl?

Morale of the story: Better isn’t always betta.