Fancybird Stands Alone

Published Date: May 29th, 2009
Category: Weekly Thought

 

I know I need to just let it go.

 

I don’t think that my inability to keep fish alive reflects upon my parenting skills. Although I do feel like I have spent more time and effort keeping Fancybird alive in the past two weeks than I have on parenting my actual child, but it’s all for a good cause. Because what do you know, those neon tetra fish all died.

 

That’s right. All of them.

 

We had a little fish death every other day in our house.

 

The first death hit me hard. I actually had a little pit of sadness in my stomach. The second death annoyed me. Especially because I had to go find the $5 fish net that SOMEONE had hidden under the couch so I could scoop him out of the water. The last death just pissed me off. I mean really—I brought in a sample of the tank water for nitrogen or ammonia levels or whatever the secret test was for. I was given the green light. I did not over feed them. I kept the tank clean. What more could a girl do?

 

I’ll tell you what—get a dog. That would have been ten times easier than these stupid fish.

 

And then the kicker. We got back from our four-day trip to California, and Fancybird, our one remaining fish, the one I was holding out for, the keeper, the greatest fish that ever lived, looked odd.

 

I know, how can a fish look odd? But he was not moving or eating and his eyes were all popped out. And then I vaguely remembered this fish medicine (yes, there is fish medicine. Had I known that fish got sick, we NEVER would have even attempted this) over the counter at The Fish Bowl that treated “Popeye.”

 

Popeye? Like the man with the muscles who eats the spinach? That was my initial reaction when I noticed the medicine and I laughed it off, thinking ‘who on earth would buy this medicine?’

 

Well. You guessed it. I did. And, the medicine cost more than Fancybird itself.

 

So I have now turned into one of “those pet owners” who spends more on the upkeep of their pets then we really should. And I’m not even doing it for the benefit or well-being of my son.

 

G could care. He’s more interested on checking the possum cage under our house (another story, another time) than taking the minute to feed his fish every morning. Oh no—I’m doing this for MY benefit and MY well-being. Because if I cannot keep one little fish alive, well, then what good am I?

 

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