Nice title, huh? I mean you really don’t know what you’re going to get, do you?
It could be that I’m going to fuss once again about sharing a bathroom with boys (specifically Little Man) or I could be about to share the first chapter of my romance novel between a handsome and strapping (but, of course, aloof and moody) cowboy who is forced to share space with a bonny lass who was dropped on his doorstep by fate. Heck, it might even be a post about a big video poker win [Vegas, anyone?]!
Yeh, no. This one is about a funeral. You see, I killed Fishdy.
OK, that may be a bit dramatic. I didn’t do it on purpose. There was no premeditation or heinous act.Â But it happened.Â [And, to be fair, it's probably a good thing that I've gotten some distance from the whole thing because I was inexplicably upset and traumatized by the whole thing.]
I was actually trying to be a good fish mom. I was cleaning out his tank. I did everything just like I’d done before … only this time the bubble stone broke. So, good fish mom that I am? I set out to get him another one. He was fine when I left … I swear.
Four stores and a 60 mile round trip later, I had the ding-dang stone [OK, first, I’m not exaggerating about the number of stores and number of miles here. Not even a little bit! Second, I also bought him new rocks and a new net … he was about to be ready for his own segment on Cribs.]
Seriously, we were gone for about 3 hours. It wasn’t a long time.
When we arrived home, I put the stone in and got the clean water a’bubblin’ again. Ahhh … all was well. I went to check on Fishdy.
Crap. [I may actually have used a different word. It's all a bit hazy.]
He was laying on his side at the bottom of the holding tank. No gill movement. Nothing.
I told Little Man. He told Husband. There was a bike ride.
A bit later, while Little Man was playing with his trucks, I quietly took Fishdy into the bathroom. I told him I was sorry, dumped him into the bowl, and flushed.
As I walked back to the kitchen, Little Man quietly said,
Mom, I know what that flush was. It was Fishdy wasn’t it?
I told him that it was and that I was very sorry that Fishdy was gone. We shared a quick hug and he went back to playing.
Fishdy’s very clean tank is sitting on my counter top. The pump is still on and the stone is still a’bubblin’. A couple of times this week I’ve had to remind myself NOT to feed the empty bowl.
Little Man has decided he wants another fish … and a hamster.
I’m sure that there is something deep that I could say here about the frailty of life and the resiliency of childhood. I feel like I should make some commentary here – something deep that resonates with readers everywhere.
But, in the end, this is really just another story of a mom, a boy, a fish, and a flush.I'll be hoppin' along now ...