A few years ago, when I was just starting out as a teacher, my little sister Keesha decided I needed a class pet. She sent me a care package complete with a fishbowl, an industrial sized container of fish food and a gift card to Walmart to buy a couple goldfish. I eagerly went to the store, bought two bright goldfish and got them settled into their new home in my classroom. I went home that night very excited to see my kids' faces when they realized we had a new addition to our classroom. The next morning, however, I walked in to see one of the fish already floating upside-down in the bowl. I quickly sent that fish to the sewer and was immediately grateful I didn't tell the kids we were getting fish, so they would never know one had died in the night.
As expected, they were delighted to have a class pet. They affectionately named it Mr. Savage and he was the center of attention for about a week. Then I walked into the the classroom one morning to find that our second fish had turned belly-side up. Our class had a discussion about the circle of life and the next day I went to the store to buy two more fish. That night I was also given a new beta-fish for the classroom. Everyone was very excited to meet the new pets and soon they were named and loved just as much as Mr. Savage. Unfortunately, my bad luck with fish was not over. I came in to work one morning to find one of the goldfish eating the other one (gross) and I had to dispose of yet another fish. The cannibalistic fish didn't make it much longer (probably because of karma) and in less than a month a total of 4 fish had died in my classroom. The only one left was the beta, Leonard.
I thought Leonard would make it. He seemed to be a pretty healthy fish. One afternoon after the kids had all gone home, I had put him in a cup while I changed the water in his bowl. I was grading some papers while I waited for the water to adjust and I happened to look up. Leonard was not in the cup. I ran over to the counter and started looking for him. He wasn't anywhere near the cup or on the floor. I finally found him in the sink, more than a foot away from the cup, apparently trying to escape to the ocean. I do not know how long he was lying in the sink, with only the reality of his horrible mistake to keep him company, but I quickly transferred him back to his bowl. He started swimming. I breathed a sigh of relief. But the ordeal must have been too much for the small fish. The next morning he had joined his four compadres and I had sworn off fish raising.
My resolve didn't last long. Christmas came along and my kids wrote letters to Santa Claus asking for a new pet fish. Classroom Santa is a big softy and couldn't say no. When the kids came back from Christmas break, our new pet, Liver, was swimming happily in the bowl. Everyday I expected to come in and find him floating at the top like all the others, but every day I was greeted by the friendly swishing of his calico fan-tail. He made it the rest of the year. He made it through his first summer. He made it through the move to a new school. He made it through Christmas break and spring break and yet another summer. This Christmas, he celebrated his second birthday. As embarrassing as it is, I was starting to get pretty attached to the little guy.
About a month ago, he started to get sick. He started floating up to the top of the bowl all the time and seemed to have trouble staying right-side-up. He was still swimming and eating, but something was definitely off. I looked up his symptoms (yes, I googled fish sicknesses, don't judge me) and diagnosed him with a swim bladder infection. I tried all the remedies short of purchasing antibiotics for my $1.50 fish and nothing seemed to work. It looked like we would soon be saying goodbye to Liver.
He hung on for much longer than I expected. Once again, I came in every morning expecting to find a dead fish, but he hung on. Finally yesterday I came in to find him motionless at the top of his bowl. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't moving. I watched him all day. He never moved once, not even when I fed him his favorite red flakes. By 3:30, I admitted to myself that he was gone and I scooped him out of the bowl and into a plastic cup. I walked down the hall headed for the bathroom. I got sidetracked on the way and stopped to talk for 5-10 minutes (it is important to note, at this point of the story, just how long Liver was in a cup with no water). I finally made it to the bathroom and tipped him into the toilet.
And he started swimming. That guy hadn't moved one fin in probably 24 hours and the second I try to flush him, he decides he still wants to live. He was swimming like crazy, running into the sides, zooming back and forth. I looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to get him out. If you know me at all, you know I didn't. I don't reach into toilets for anything. Not even live fish.
So I flushed the toilet. And I walked away. And I secretly hoped he would somehow swim back up to the toilet bowl and terrorize some early morning bathroom goer (so far no crazy fish-in-the-toilet stories are going around, I think he's really gone by now).
Three years ago my friends all called me a fish killer. Until yesterday, it simply wasn't true. I have officially now earned the title. I hope you're all happy.
If I were you, I probably would have left him enough food to last a day, and left him in the toilet bowl, just to make sure some kid saw him :)
ReplyDeleteOnce I had a goldfish who seemed dead and was floating in the fish tank and so I flushed him down the toilet--- seriously a few hours later he was back in the toilet bowl. So weird. So gross.
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