You might remember that WCK and I tried to adopt a pet goldfish two years ago. I was turned away by the fish lady at PetSmart, who expected me to purchase a $50 aquarium and then endure a 5-day waiting period to adopt a 12-cent fish.
I finally decided we were ready to try again. This time, we went for an easy-to-care-for betta fish, who is perfectly happy in a little tiny tank. Nobody at PetSmart tried to stop me this time. Either I look older and more responsible now, or the PetSmart fish department has become less militant.
We now have a little blue and red betta named Jimmy John, after the sandwich restaurant. He's been with us for maybe 10 days, and now the reality of fish-ownership has set in. Perhaps the militant fish lady at PetSmart two years ago noticed I had a small child and was doing me a huge favor by turning me away. It turns out, when you have a four-year-old and a pet fish, you live in constant terror that the fish is going to die.
Several times a day, I'll see Jimmy John bobbing peacefully in his little tank, and I'll wonder if this is it. I'll rush to the tank, trying to come up with a speech to give to WCK about how all living things die, blah blah blah, picturing the very sad funeral in the bathroom, imagining the walk of shame back to PetSmart to purchase Jimmy John II. Then Jimmy John will flick his fins and come to life, and look at me like, "What?"
Jay thinks Jimmy John is messing with me on purpose.