I'll Have The Fish, Please

So the other day I noticed that our fish, a stunningly iridescent blue beta, was kind of slightly sticking out of the water of his tank, because it had mostly evaporated. I thought that was probably not good for him and did the whole new water/wash the rocks thing. During the sybaritic fish rites, I remembered the first pisces of our family, Trish the Fish. She kicked ass.

We got Trish the Fish when elder son was 2, and then moved down to Illinois, taking Trish the Fish carefully with us. She did not spill. After settling in, Trish the Fish lived two more years, making three total, which I believe is probably the equivalent of 140 human years. She was one old bitch of a fish when she finally died, through no fault of her own except that she was so old that it probably contributed to her not resisting the effects of our poor fish stewardship.

One time I was cleaning her fish bowl which involves pouring the fish into a glass of water to get her out of the way. That fucker Trish the Fish totally spazzed out and jumped ship, landing her scaly ass in the garbage disposal. I freaked out because I was so not grabbing her, but I also didn't want to be a party to her death. I couldn't bear tiny fish gasps coming from the drain, and then at some point I would have to turn on the garbage disposal and that would be so Fish Fargo. Anyway, I paged my now-ex-husband with the urgent call signal of 911. He returned my call immediately and I explained to him that he must rush home before Trish the Fish asphyxiated, to rescue her. After a pregnant pause he said that he was in the middle of a lung biopsy and could I perhaps deal with it myself? Because my dilemma and Trish the Fish's imminent demise were so secondary right now. I cursed him mightily and dove in to deal with it.

Not wanting to touch the fish, I used two wooden spoons in a double handed chopstick fashion to grab her. It was like playing Operation but in a compost-filled kitchen sink drain with a live fish and no light. After quite a few attempts, I began to despair and considered throwing in the towel (small aside here--did you know that "throw in the towel" is used because in a sport fight, when the time is up, the time judges literally throw a rolled-up towel into the ring? Because I did not know that until just this past summer. And it never made sense to me.). But then I realized that I must go on, for Trish the Fish. I finally was able to bring her up because she was so oxygen deprived that she stopped flailing at the last second and re-launching herself into the compost. She had some corn stuck to her side but was otherwise okay, and the corn came off as she swam unsteadily in her clean bowl. She rallied and perked up within minutes, helped along by some tuna roadkill-smelling fish flakes.

Another hard time that Trish the Fish survived was Fish Ramadan of '04. We left for a nine day trip and forgot to have someone come and take care of her, so she had to live off of instinct and sheer grit. She did it, but looked a little peaked when we got back, like a Ralph Lauren fish model.

We finally lost Trish the Fish in another travel incident in late '05. We went up to Milwaukee once again and this time we fed her, but the unreliable kitchen door blew open and the winter cold was too much for her to bear. I kind of thought that was wussy after all we'd been through together, or actually all I'd subjected her to, because she could have gone all cryogenic and suspended animation, but instead she just died. It's possible that she just gave up because swimming around the ice crystals in her tank was confusing.

So the boys are convinced (by their cousin, a many-fish owner) that if they don't name this fish it will live longer. Because all the named ones of their cousin died fast. Which I think is totally faulty logic and I do not accept it. They need to work on their syllogisms. So I'm naming the fish in my head.

Please allow me to introduce our new fish,  Yamstabber Beyonce McButt.