Last Summer we went from being a no-pet family, to owning two fish—in two separate fishbowls. A goldfish, and a beta fish.
Jack had won “Freedom” at a 4th of July carnival and was doing a spectacular job of keeping the goldfish alive. Tommy had been given “Sea World” for his third birthday (and, quite frankly, did nothing to keep him alive).
One fateful morning I awoke to sadness. There was Freedom, dead on the counter. The three-year-old culprit had awakened before everyone and had been overcome with temptation. He had wanted to play with the fish—like, PLAY with the fish—the way three-year-olds play (not the way fish play, because, let’s face it, fish don’t play).
Ah, poor Freedom... and Jack; poor Jack. It was a hard day.
That story gives an ounce of context for the following.
Sea World was dead—in his bowl—but dead. (And, no, I hadn’t been relying on Tommy to keep the fish alive.)
Naturally suspicious, I turned my interrogation to Tommy.
Me: Tommy, do you know what happened to Sea World?
Tommy: (eyebrows furrowed in sincere contemplation)(eyebrows un-furrowed in conclusion)(also, nonchalantly): Probably someone came in and shot him with a gun.
....
....
Me: Tommy, that’s ridiculous. There would be fish guts all over the place. Not to mention, a shattered bowl. There’s no way a bullet would kill a fish without destroying its bowl into a thousand tiny pieces—we’d be seeing rock, glass and guts everywhere! And think about it, if somebody really had it out for your beta—which is highly unlikely—poisoning the water would have been WAY easier and much more probable. Spray a little windex and BAM. The job is done
Ah, I’m just kidding. I didn’t say any of that. But I thought all of it. Really, I had no response... but a smile.
