I stare at
the bowl. Searching. Looking for signs of movement within the water. Finally, I
spot him. Finners. Our pet fish. He swims past the chopsticks that lean against
the outside of the tank. He doesn’t look well. He swishes past the Legos
perched on the other side of the glass. He moves along, back to his favorite
hangout in the ceramic castle. To rest. Is it normal for a fish to rest? —
I think he
knows. He knows why the chopsticks are there. He knows why Kiddo placed the
Legos oh-so-carefully when we first brought him home.
The
chopsticks are a ramp.
The Legos
are a staircase.
Yes, a ramp
and a set of stairs. To give him options to get out of his tank. For when he
dies. So he can go to the toilet and be flushed to the Large Fishbowl in the
Sky. It wasn’t my idea. It was all Kiddo. She knows the deal.
I look at
Finners. He comes to the glass and looks back at me. He totally knows the deal, too.
He knows
his fate. He knows we have a bit of a problem with pets.
It started
like this: about two years ago, I get home from work. Kiddo is building a house
on the rug. Wooden blocks outline the rooms. Her blankie acts as a
semi-tentlike-roof.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask, removing my shoes and dropping the 10-pound,
osteoporosis-inducing behemoth that is my tote bag.
“A house.” Kiddo does not look up from her construction.
“Who are you building it for?” I’ve already eyed the plastic dinosaurs
scattered about.
“Donna,” she says, carefully placing another block wall.
“Oh, sure! Donna! Donna the dinosaur!” I plop myself on the floor
next to her.
“No, Mama,” she says, handing me a one of her portable snack bowls (complete
with lid). “Donna, my pet. My pet ladybug.”
I look in the bowl…and hear Kiddo add, “She’s a little dead.”
I shake the snack bowl a bit. Yup, there she is. Donna, the a little dead ladybug.
First thought: I mentally applaud my husband, who had the wherewithal to put
her in a bowl…with a lid.
Second thought: You know it’s time to get a real pet when your daughter adopts,
plays with and builds a house for a dead bug she calls her pet.
Third thought: When you really think about it, an a little dead pet isn’t that bad. A lot less hassle than a
living pet. No food, not much upkeep.
Fourth thought: Fast-forward 20 years. Kiddo tells her therapist how the only
pet she ever had was a dead ladybug.
Looking
back at it now, I should have seen this as a sign. Not as a sign to get a pet,
but that we should not get a pet.
That perhaps we aren’t good with pets. Call it what you want–bad pet karma,
poor pet ju-ju. No matter how you describe it, we should have just stayed away,
far away from the pet store.
But we didn’t. The next day, we made our first trip to Petco. We got
Bubbles. Bubbles, the yellow Betta fish, was with us for about six
months. When she died, it was rough on all of us. (Life Nugget #20: Don’t laugh
when your kid’s fish dies. I’ll elaborate at another time, but let’s just say
it’s very hard to explain inappropriate laughter to a three-year-old.)
On our
next trip, we brought Princess Fishy Fish home. A yellow goldfish. Sadly, we
had a very brief time with our royal pet. She passed away after only 53 days.
And then,
there was the trip to adopt Finners. A blue Betta fish. Four months and
counting. But he’s slowing down. I definitely think the end is near.
Kiddo
catches me staring at Finners.
“Is he
still alive, Mama?” She peers in the bowl. Probably not the first thing most
kids ask concerning their pet. But this is us, and, as I’ve said, Kiddo knows the deal.
“Yup,” I
say, not adding that he looks peaked, kind of pale…can a fish look pale?
“Okay,
good. Let’s play!” Kiddo bops out of the room.
I take one
last look at Finners. He is drifting a little sideways and his top fin is drooping a bit more.
But he is still alive. For now.
Oh, and my update from Rafi’s Run –
it was a huge success! We raised over $187,000 to help find a cure for EB. My
tush is still a tad sore and, for some reason, my left shoulder ached for three
days, but I managed to finish the race and not totally hurt myself. Since I found my
tennis shoes, I’m actually contemplating going to the gym next week. By
definition, “contemplating” doesn’t mean I’ve decided one way or another…I’ll
keep you posted.
When not blogging for CafeMom,
working (ohsoslowly) on her book, or writing for New York Family,
Heather Chaet documents moments of motherhood, the little successes and
the epic fails here — and on Twitter (@heatherchaet).
