J.J. and the Methuselah-ion Goldfish, or the Sequel to the Saga of the Golden Horde

Some time back, I bored you with a short story about the Golden Horde of goldfish that came into my life, thanks to an innocent attempt at being a good daddy. I’m not going to repeat what was in the first story; you’ll just have to read it, if you’ve got nothing better to do. The purpose of this resumed narrative is to alert you to the associated pitfalls and issues, so that you can avoid long-term servitude, which equates to nurturing something that is dumb as dirt and like to eat their young. In retrospect, this may not be such a bad idea. I jest!

Do you know what the average lifespan of a dumb goldfish is? Let me enlighten you! Try bloody damn forever. I looked this up in my handy fish encyclopedia, and if you get an expensive one, it’s 15 to 20 years. If it’s one of your average “off-the-shelf” goldfish, it can be over 25 to 30 years. Of course, why not? They don’t do anything except swim around in warm water, eat, poop, and fornicate. The only thing they ever say is “Glub-Glub.” You could commit murder and get less time than 30 years. I think the penalty for killing a goldfish is they take you to a large swimming pool and incarcerate your ass at the bottom in one of those “fish castles.”

So, after a short period of time, our offspring which had introduced these diminutive descendants of carp, of course, lost interest. By now I’ve got approximately 300 bucks invested in fish paraphernalia, and a new “honeydew” task called clean the fish tank, at least twice a month. You may ask why I didn’t just flush them down the toilet. I had a good reason. I had read in the paper about people in Florida flushing little baby alligators down the toilet ,and the results were some rather large alligators showing up in the sewage system. I figured considering the lifespan that I mentioned, a few years from now I’d read about some sanitation worker attacked by 6 foot goldfish that had a large black spot in the middle of its forehead. (You’ll meet him later — the fish, not the worker.) 

I could never figure out how eight or nine little fish could screw up 20 gallons water as fast as these did. Cleaning the charcoal filter was really nasty business. Smelled gross! I almost gave up drinking water when I thought about what it is fish do in it. The fun part was using this tiny little net to catch these suckers so I could drain the tank. You don’t realize how fast goldfish swim, until you try to catch one. I named a super-fast one Johnny Weissmuller — you know, the guy that played Tarzan in the movies. (I think he won four or five Olympic Gold medals for swimming — Weissmuller, not the fish.) His best line was “Me Tarzan, you Jane.” Or, “That is Boy! Run like Jane, swim like rock, smell like Cheetah!” The chimp that played Cheetah was a better actor, with real creative lines, like “Hugha-Hugha-Hugha!” But, I digress!

Eventually, I got to the point where I would sometimes, after work, with vodka martini in hand, dump in some fish food flakes, which cost about $900 a pound, and sit in what we called the sunroom and watch these fish go berserk. The stereo system was in there, so I would put on some really good classical music, such as Ray Stevens playing “Freddy Feel-good and his Funky Little Five Piece Band,” followed quickly with “Gitarzan,” which the fish seemed to prefer. One of the speakers was right next to the tank. I would turn the volume up enough to make the water ripple and you should’ve seen those fish dance. Blue-eyes would come in and ask me, “Are you tormenting those fish again?” My answer would be something like, ”Nah! Look at them! They’re all smiling.” Or, “I think those two are doing the “Lindy.” Her answer was the usual, “My mother always said you were weird.” (If you don’t know what the “Lindy” is, I suggest you Google it. God knows, it may come back!)

There was one particular fish that was bigger than the others. It had a white tail, and a big black spot on its head that reminded me of a toupee. He looked rather swarthy. I assumed it was a male because he would dominate the castle, and when it came to food, he would chase the other fish away until he got a belly full. I named him Nixon. There was another one which was completely Golden, with the exception of the black spot in the middle of its head. Once it had eaten, it would go to the far end of the tank, take off like a bat outta hell, and crash headfirst into the other end. He was the only one that tried to leap out of the tank. I guess he didn’t like his new home. I think it might’ve been cross-eyed. I named him “Deliverance,” because I figured he was the offspring of an illicit brother-sister relationship, and could probably play the banjo.

After a couple of years, it was clear the fish were here to stay. During this period, we only had one fatality, and by now they were known as J.J.’s Horde. I was still spending time teaching them the virtues of classical music, and they were still developing their multiple dance routines. The grass that I put in was called Dwarf Hair grass, and it had a mind of its own. This stuff grew faster than dandelions. I tried to get rid of it, but it just kept coming back. I thought about using some kind of weed killer, but came to the conclusion that it would probably kill the fish, have no effect on the grass, and I would end up getting a letter from “Rachel Carson or Bette White.”

One day, when I was down at the pet store buying more fish flakes, I mentioned this problem to the super-knowledgeable clerk. She said what I needed was some “guppies” that would feed on the grass. I said, “Yeah! Why didn’t I think of that?” But I was thinking “What the hell is a ”guppy?” She further commented, “You also need snails.” I told her I had a backyard full of them, and she let me know — that was not going to work.

So, I ended up with a bag of little tiny snails that cost two bucks each, which would drive a Frenchman crazy because they are so small. The “guppies” turned out to be little tiny fish, between a quarter inch and a half inch long. The “fish owner support professional” had just reached in with a net and poured a bunch of them into a plastic bag, and asked for another 10 bucks. So I went back home, dumped in the pint-size escargot, and what looked like 30 or more guppies. I watched them for a while and they formed what is called a school, which is an oxymoron when it comes to Pisces intelligence. They immediately went to the bottom, swimming in and around the grass. Aha! A solution to the problem of too much grass! (Of course, there are some of you that would suggest there is never too much grass.) The snails sunk to the bottom and didn’t do anything but lay there.

The next day, I went in to feed the fish and noticed that the goldfish were playing tag, or hide and seek with the guppies. Isn’t that cute! I didn’t feed the fish every day because someone told me that it created problems if the fish did not eat their miniature Wheaties. A day or so later, I went to feed them and treat them to the “1812 Overture,” especially the cannon part, which would really shake up the tank. I looked in the tank and couldn’t find any guppies. I finally saw a few hiding in the grass, but that was it! As I was watching, one of the more intrepid guppies left its leafy sanctuary, and much to my shock and dismay, immediately became dinner for Nixon. What the knowledgeable clerk had neglected to tell me was that goldfish eat guppies. Another 10 bucks down the drain!

Sometime later, Blue-eyes convinced me that we needed to redo a portion of our patio. She had a friend who did a project in something of a Japanese water garden motif. The next thing I know is I’m staring at a couple of magazines with various demonstrations of how to do this. Having had some terrible experiences with contractors, we decided to attempt this minor project ourselves. Mistake number two. Mistake number one was considering this in the first place. I drew up something we called “plans,” which was an undecipherable set of drawings with a bunch of meaningless notations, measurements and sketches of rocks and plants. She selected the plants and rocks, and I selected the shovels. I hired a guy help dig a hole that would become the new home for our Golden Horde, which by the way had multiplied by about 4-fold, because clearly the goldfish were doing more than just swimming, eating and pooping. I wasn’t worried about over population, because I figured Nixon would eat the young sooner or later, if he could catch them. He was getting so fat now, that he didn’t swim so much as he waddled from point to point.

We did follow one of the plans suggested in the pond magazines — sort of. The pond we chose was approximately 8’ x 6’ in a half circle, 12 inches deep with a four foot rock waterfall. The rocks were artistically piled on top of each other, with the gentle flow of water cascading into the pond and really looked great — on paper! It even told us what kind of rock to buy (called “feather rock”), because it was really light lava-based stuff. Naturally, the magazine recommended a manufacturer of the kit containing a rubber liner, a pump with hoses, a small filter and miscellaneous tent pegs to hold everything in place. Price tag for the kit, just under $400. What a bargain. That’s okay, anything for my guppy-eating friends.

We went and picked out the rocks at our local rock store, or I should say Blue-eyes directed the architectural selections. What the magazine didn’t tell us was that feather rock was as sharp as a razor, and soon made my hands look like steak tartare. We ended up with a truckload of man-eating small boulders, and me bleeding like a stuck pig, shelling out another $400. “Blondie” had a visualization of what the waterfall should look like, and I spent the next three days rearranging, at least a dozen times, rocks for this four foot waterfall. One consistent thing which continued to happen, was after each rearrangement was she commented, “That rock on the bottom — it’s in the wrong place.” Naturally, we had to set it up so the water would fall, rather than just gurgle all over and just make the rocks wet. We ran some tests, and this, of course, required more modification to our miniaturized version of Yosemite’s Vernal Falls.

Back to the handy dandy rock store, but this time with gloves and body armor, for more lava rock for decoration and gravel to go on the bottom of the pond. More bucks out the door! Of course, we had to have flagstone to get from the edge of the patio to the pond, and all around what I have now dubbed as Lake Shasta. Water plants were an absolute necessity, as well as more grass for the now non-existent guppies to hide in. If we followed the instructions in the magazine, we would have put in enough water plants to cover three quarters of the pond. My reaction to that, beyond monetary, was “How the hell do you see the fish?” Did you know that some lava rock actually floats? Believe me! One was about 18 inches long and 10 inches wide, and looked like a little island. It worked out okay though, because I figured I’d buy a little lighthouse, and stick it in the middle to warn any passing ships of this uncharted obstacle. I gave up on that idea, because I figured I would have to hire the little man to live there.

Finally, inauguration day came. We turned it on, and lo and behold, we had a waterfall and a bunch of fish that had gone into complete seclusion. It all worked, and actually looked pretty good. Blue-eyes brought me out of vodka martini to celebrate our achievement, and remind me that it was time to change the bandages on my multiple wounds. She had a few suggestions, one of which was submerged lighting, and I asked her, “Do you really think the fish want to read at night?” I can’t repeat her retort. By now, I figured these fish had cost me close to a grand. As I stood there taking in this marvelous architectural accomplishment, I thought if I could see the fish, which I couldn’t because of all the flora, they would be laughing their little golden rear ends off.

Now, this story isn’t over yet. We failed to consider a few things like raccoons, a blue heron, multiple egrets, and a bobcat that took up fishing. But that’s another story.

Moral of the story: Don’t be afraid to eat a goldfish, they’re not an endangered species!