A true (and only slight) fishie tale
By Sara Phile
A few years ago, when my boys were 8 and 3, we were renting a home in downtown Southern Pines. Since having a pet would have cost us more, we did not have any. Well, except a fish. “Fishie,” a blue beta, moved into our lives shortly after we moved into our house. The boys could not agree on a name for him. One wanted to name him Harold the Helicopter, the other wanted to name him Spiderman, and there was absolutely no room for compromise, so I made an executive decision and declared his name “Fishie.”
Well, after a few years, Fishie passed away.
I remember that day so clearly because when I found him lifeless under a plant, I was surprised that he lasted as long as he did, and here are a few reasons why.
One afternoon, a few months prior to Fishie’s death, I couldn’t find my phone anywhere, which wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. I had called it numerous times and looked around for a few hours. Kevin, the 3-year-old, was notorious for “hiding it” in random places: under his bed, in his train sets, under the bathroom sink, in the dryer, just to name a few of his favorite hiding spots.
Suddenly, it clicked. I knew he knew. I waited until he was playing contently with his trains before I asked him.
“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone?”
“Ow, I don know, Mommy.” Sheepish grin.
“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone? I know you know.”
“I don know, Mommy.” His brown eyes darted to the left.
“Yes you do. Tell me now.”
“Well . . . Mommy. Fishie needed to call someone.”
Oh no. A quick glance into the fish tank confirmed that Fishie did indeed need to call someone. In fact, he had been “on the phone” for hours.
There was no reviving my phone, but Fishie was fine.
Another time, after dinner, I realized there was . . . uh . . . something abnormal about the fish tank. As I looked closer, I realized there were peas, yes peas, in there. Along with bread crust. And an entire banana. Sigh. So this was why Kevin had finished dinner unusually early that evening and declared he was “ready for dessert.”
One time the entire can of fish food was dumped into the tank. I caught him (Kevin) in the act of that one and was able to yank Fishie out and rescue him from the downpour.
After I realized Fishie had died, I unplugged the tank and carried it into the bathroom. I dropped Fishie into the toilet, but in the process accidentally dropped a few marbles in as well. I was attempting to retrieve the marbles with the fish floating around the commode when 8-year-old David peeked in the halfway open bathroom door and said, “Uh, Mom, what are you doing?”
“Oh, just trying to . . . uh . . . retrieve something.”
“What?” He blinked.
“Marbles,” I said, as if fishing marbles from the toilet bowl was the most normal activity.
“How did marbles get in the toilet?”
“Well, uh, the fish died this morning, so I am flushing him . . . that’s just what you do when a fish dies and I dropped some marbles in there too.”
David’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Kevin killed the fish!”
“No, Kevin did not kill the fish. Why would you even say that?”
“Yes, he did! Because of all the stuff he put in the tank!” David wailed.
At this point, Kevin, startled by the commotion, threw open the bathroom door and asked what had happened to Fishie.
“Fishie died this morning,” I said, bracing for the reaction.
“Oh no!” Kevin wailed. “I need to say good-bye to Fishie!”
“You killed him,” David said, matter of factly.
“I not kill Fishie! I need to say goodbye to Fishie!”
At this point I had retrieved the marbles and could still see Fishie’s blue fin under the toilet hole.
“OK, then let’s all say goodbye to Fishie.”
The boys, sullen, crowded around the toilet bowl. Fishie’s blue fin peeked out from the hole, but that was it. Kevin, tears slipping from his eyes, exclaimed, “Goodbye Fishie!” as I flushed our pet. David just glared at Kevin, convinced that this tragic event was his fault.
I mentally prepared for a conversation of where Fishie would go, and if we will see him in heaven, and could we get another fish, but after about five minutes both boys began playing with their trains and didn’t mention Fishie again. I cleaned the tank and put it away.
Since Fishie has left us, we have raised several more betas. Bradley, Thomas, Bubbles and Chuckles, to name a few. And in case you are wondering, Fishie was the only one of them who ever needed to make a call. PS
Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.
