the husband called me at work to tell me:
"Hi honey, I'm sorry I have bad news." He pauses.
"Oh no! what!" My heart drops at this point, possibly it's thumping around my ankles.
"fishie died," he says.
"That's it?" I respond.
I felt kinda bad saying that... but honestly I was expecting something more drastic than the death of fishie the well-traveled fish. you see, fishie had a full and well-traveled life.
and fishie the well-traveled fish survived a lot.
When I first got fishie, he was a hand-me-down from my youngest brother. Apparently fishie kept attacking the other fishes. Quite astonishing considering that fishie was a Zebra Danio (ie tiny striped fish).
So fishie came to live with me in a vase because I thought that fish bowls were tacky. (am I terrible?)
I didn't name fishie because I had recently lost Petit Poisson (a small goldfish)** and didn't want to get too attached.
Silly me. Fishie lived to the ripe old age of...
well I don't know how old he was, but he lived a long time.
One time fishie survived being fed oreos by dumb college boys.
Fishie survived moving bedrooms in my college house (several times) and abandonment when I went home for long weekends, trips home to my parents home, a stint in a tiny one-bedroom apartment when the husband and I were first married and then finally to his rightful spot in the kitchen
in his vase. which now sits empty.
I'd like to think fishie had a full life of adventure...
and that he didn't mind living in a flower vase that much.
**quick story how Petit Poisson died. He was floating one morning so I mournfully took him to the toilet. But when I dropped him in he came back to life and started swimming up the pipes! In a panic I grabbed him (yes with my hand) and put him back in the bowl. I then scrubbed my hands for 10 minutes. Petit Poisson died for real the next day.