Some years ago while our kids were still “wee tikes” and far less expensive than they eventually became with each passing year, they were involved in little league. Each year the local league sponsored a fair to raise money for such things as chalk, jockstraps and official little league baseballs. I could never figure out the jockstrap part, but decided that the better part of valor was not ask. Being the doting parents that we were, we gave them a couple bucks with the assumption that they would go down to the field and get a hot dog or two, some healthy candy and return with the predestined gut-ache.
Instead of this preferred outcome, each returned with a plastic bag containing three or four goldfish. My immediate re-action was to flush them down the toilet, —the goldfish— not kids (let me think about that) but Mom had discovered by that time the “curtain climbers” had named all of the fish. I still had thoughts of Pisces murder, but was informed by my loving spouse that if I wanted dinner and continued tranquility, I better figure out some way to preserve the longevity of our new family. She told me that I should get my butt in the car and solve the problem. Butt is not quite the word she used.
I was outnumbered 5 to 1 and put both arms in the air in full surrender. I beat it down to the nearest pet store, found a clerk and told him that I needed some “accouterments for Carassiu sautatus auratus.” (which is Latin for “I am about to be beaten to death with a plastic bag full of fish.”) Naturally, his answer was “domesticated or wild?” displaying that he understood Latin. Not true! The guy looked at me like I was from outer space.
I explained to him my rich uncle had left me a bag full of goldfish with the stipulation in his will that “I had to keep them alive for the next 60 years.” The enthusiastic clerk grabbed one of those rolling carts said “please follow me.” My first reaction was “what great service.” However, this thought was soon replaced by the suspicion that this guy knew he had a live one. I suddenly had the sinking feeling that this guy was on commission.
The first stop was the tank department at which I dropped 40 bucks. The next stop was the air pump department which was 25 bucks unless I wanted something with the carbon filter which was another 15 bucks. We then went to the chemical department, where Dow Chemical had a permanent sales representative, where I dropped more dollars to make sure that the water was free from chlorine and other fish disturbing chemicals. I call this double-dipping, because I think I pay to have chlorine put in the water in the first place. Oh well, it’s for my kids. The next item was 10 bucks worth of small pebbles that were needed to coat the bottom of the bloody aquarium. He told me they were having a sale on fish Castles, which would make the fish better acclimate to their new home. I had no idea that under all the water on this planet that there was a multitudes of castles for fish. I said “Oh sure, let’s go for it”. We then got the fresh water wild life Flora which is an absolute necessity for the growth of the proper level of oxygen in the tank. “Great!” “Give me 5 pounds!” I figured if the fish died I could throw the green stuff into a salad.
He pointed out that I needed to have a small net to remove the fish each week so that we could clean up tank. I made the mistake of asking him what could possibly get into the tank? His answer was an enlightened “fish droppings.” It took me a few moments to figure out what the hell the fish might be dropping. I think my comment at that point was “if we don’t feed them, then they won’t drop anything, is that right?” His answer was “that’s correct, but they’ll die!” My private thought was “now we’re getting somewhere!”
The sad conclusion is I walked out of the store approximately $250 lighter with a backseat full of things to prolong the life of five bucks worth of goldfish. Naturally, kids being kids, two weeks later the bloody goldfish were a forgotten thing and now along with mowing the lawn I have to clean the damn tank.
After thinking about this over the years and now that the kids are gone and have children of their own, I have come to the conclusion that one day in the near future I’m going to show up on their doorstep with two plastic bags of goldfish. What’s the old adage, “don’t get mad, get even.”
The moral of the story is “never look a free fish in the mouth, for you may find a hook.” I don’t believe that I should leave you dangling on a line, but there is more to this story, however I don’t suggest you wait with baited breath in anticipation of how this Golden Horde eventually gets assassinated.
J.J. Addingnuttin 