Casualties of Childhood

Last week we bought Ella a fish. A beta fish that was a brilliant blue - she named him Fish Fish Baby Fish (and sometimes Fish Fish Baby Fish Blue Fish depending on her mood.) We got the obligatory bowl and colored gravel and fake tropical plant to give Fish Fish Baby Fish the full illusion of a natural habitat.

Then we (Ella and myself) got it in our heads that he would be so much happier with a friend.

We did some light research into this and asked some seemingly knowledgeable sales folk the important questions, even asking one guy to get his more experienced co-worker when he said, "Yeah, I think this one will be okay" about some baby shark-type fish that actually needed a heater and air circulator when all we had was a measly bowl.

We were steered in the direction of a larger goldfish- allegedly the little goldfish tend to nip at the beta fish but the big ones not so much since they aren't as intimidated by the beta (also know as the Japanese Fighting Fish.) This was wholly untrue. Our poor beta had bite marks in his side the next morning, earning the still yet unnamed goldfish a big fat "time-out" (as Ella said) in a bowl of his own. Then he made the journey to Beals Island to live among Kristi's fish where hopefully he can learn to play well with others.

And here comes the casualty part: we came home from Beals this afternoon to find a dead Fish Fish Baby Fish. Dead fish don't actually float. At least he didn't. We had him exactly 6 days. Not exactly a record of longevity. We broke the news to a rather stoic Ella who took it all in and then decided that flushing him down the toilet was "not a good idea" and opted for a backyard burial. He was laid to rest this afternoon of May 15, 2008 in a deep hole we pray Mochy won't dig up.

Tomorrow we will be off to the pet store to start the journey all over again.