I already have a Jesus fish
“Ba-dump, ba-DUMP!”
I saw the squirrel, but I couldn’t do anything. That is because squirrels – along with raccoons, robins, and, I’m guessing, Oompa-Loompas – are the only small creatures on Earth that will instantly fill an entire travel lane when they notice you are driving toward them. Given that …
“Ba-dump, ba-DUMP!”
My 7-year-old daughter, Bebo, sat in the backseat. I waited for her panicky demands to stop the car, so that I could initiate mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the squirrel. But how? Quickly, I looked for a straw coffee stirrer on the floor.
However, when I turned my head to glance at Bebo – a driving technique perfected by parents – her eyes were not wet. Her chin was not quivering. No sniffles. No tears. No need for frickin’ Kleenex.
Instead?
“BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!”
I followed her lead.
“BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!”
“Did you see that?” she said.
“See it? I HIT it?”
“Is it dead?”
I checked the rearview. “It’s not in the road. But we definitely hit it.”
“Well, then, if it’s not dead – that was funny!”
I went with my gut – another parenting technique.
“That’s right, man,” I said. “It IS funny!”
In unison: “BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!”
Inside, though, I was perplexed. Just three nights earlier, Bebo bawled and snotted all over the TV set while the ASPCA used Willie Nelson’s “Always On My Mind” in one of its commercials, a smart public relations move which utilizes the global psychological theory that listening to Willie Nelson makes you want to adopt a one-eyed Chihuahua.
“Awww!” Bebo sighed, after every animal’s pitiful photo. I waited for it. “Awww!” Waited for it. “Awww!” Waited for it. “Awww!” It never came. Thankfully. My friends pressure me about it enough.
“Did you get Bebo a dog yet?”
No. I have not. Sophie would like a dog and has asked for one. However, we live in a condo, which, I have observed, is no place for a dog to live, unless the dog owns the condo. Despite what my friends think, I am not opposed to having a dog. I like dogs. Good dogs. Idiots usually raise bad dogs, and I have no use for grand idiots and their bad dogs, which, at times, can leave a bad taste in my mouth about all dogs.
Besides, we already have a Jesus fish.
Sandy Cheeks – named by Bebo after the karate-chopping Texan squirrel on “SpongeBob Squarepants” – is our goldfish. When I bought Sandy for Bebo in April 2008, I thought I was getting a 99-cent deal on a great pet, until a friend told me Sandy is a feeder fish.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Feeder fish,” she said, “are the tiny fish that pet stores use to feed the bigger fish. Geesh, you really aren’t a critter person, are you Leon? That fish won’t last three months.”
April, Sandy celebrates three years with us. Since last August, she has nearly died thrice, and only died once. Really. Just before Christmas, she died, and not just “floating” died. I mean the kind of dead where the fish is curved and lifeless. An hour later, Sandy was back, muah-muah-muah-ing around her bowl, the way healthy fish muah-muah-muah. Haaa-le-lu-jah!
Despite Sandy’s aquatic Resurrection, the reality is she’s dying. Pets ultimately die, and when pets ultimately die, or go permanently missing, the world gets more notes like this one, penned by my adult friend Wembley to her cat Jello.
"Dear God,” Wembley wrote in third grade. “Please let me connect with Jello, wherever he may be with you or in this great world.
"Dear Darling Jello … I love you with all my heart, that will never change. I could never be mad at you and I will always miss you dearly. I know you will make the right choices and always love and miss me greatly as I do you. I know I will never hear your meow again or see your cute little face, or feel your furry body as I soothe and pet you. But I have your dingle ball, my pictures, and my memories, which will never die. Dear, dear Jello – goodbye! I love you and I will think of you. Always kisses. I love you.”
See, with a fish, you only have to hold a small funeral by the toilet. Not a single dingle ball involved.
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Leon Thompson is the author of three books: “Good Junk,” “dork. – another look at my junk,” and “Not Too Awful Bad: A Storyteller’s Guide to Vermont.”
