ME: “It’s too bad there’s not a Humane Society for fish.”
JACK: “Yeah, for all those stray fish we see on the side of the road.”
(Jack can be so sarcastic. I wonder where he gets it.)
I’ve never thought about where you take a pet fish that doesn’t play well with his tank mates before. But it’s a real problem. One that I’m having right now.
This is Buster Posey. He’s a lovely cobra guppy. Just look at that tail. I try not to compliment him often because he’s terribly vain and says rude things to the other fish, pointing out their uneven fins and crossed eyes and such.
Superficial insults aren’t his only offense. Buster Posey constantly stalks Evan Longoria and Mad Bum, nipping at their tails. And he’s just awful to our platies, Bob and Martha.* (Just last night, he appeared to be violating Bob in a men’s prison sort of way.)
My attempts at counseling Buster Posey about his behavior and even putting him in the time out net, have had no effect. He’s gotten worse, if anything. Bob, undoubtedly traumatized, has taken to hiding in the crocodile skull most of the day.
I called Petco to see if I could exchange Buster for a more placid fish, maybe a Brandon Crawford or a Gregor Blanco. But, without a receipt, it wasn’t an option.
The thought of flushing Buster Posey down the toilet or feeding him to my cat seems so vile. I wish I could find a new home for him, perhaps a nice foster family that has experience working with fish who have behavior issues. But where does one find a fish foster family? I wonder if DFCS would know.
So it continues. Every time I walk into the kitchen, Buster Posey is chasing Bob around the tank until the poor defeated platy swims repeatedly into the glass. He’s going to wind up with broken facial bones and I really don’t need a vet bill right now. I wonder what Dr. Morris would say if I brought in an inch long fish with a possible concussion.
This morning, I finally had enough and flushed Buster Posey down the toilet in the hall bathroom. My lack of emotion and nonchalant attitude about the whole thing is a little scary. I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore.
When Jack came down for breakfast, I made a big production of looking for Buster Posey like I’d just noticed he was missing. “Oh well, I guess he ran away.”
That makes me a murderer and a liar.
*Bob’s first wife, Laura, died of complications from pregnancy, according to Dustin, the Petco aquarium attendant who always smells like pot. Jack and I had taken her body in for an autopsy. It’s not a service they normally provide.
After a proper two-week mourning period, we purchased a new spouse for Bob and named her Martha, after James’ human cousin and his wife. I mean, who wouldn’t want the honor of having a $1.29 freshwater aquarium fish named after them?
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But wait! There’s more!
Okay, there’s really not more. I just always wanted to say that.