Here fishy fishy, bye fishy fishy: share your fish “tales”

If there was a Social Services for Fish, we would be so busted.

I am sad to inform you that Tad, Rad and Cad met their demise, as well as those other unnamed fishes we managed to kill as well.

Total lifespan at the Johnson Slaughterhouse? A whopping 23 days. For the lucky ones.

For those just tuning in, my daughter Hadley received a fish tank for her 5th birthday from her Aunt Lisa. My husband Jamie and I had previously been resistant to acquiring a pet but thought fish ownership would be a no-brainer.

Turns out the Wizard of Oz’s scarecrow isn’t the only one without a brain.

We started with three fish and replaced them after each ceremonial burial around the toilet.
Tad met his demise in his Man Cave. Cad attempted the back-stroke and ended up staying there. A few others died when the filter broke. We flushed the last-standing fish down the toilet.

It was a mercy killing. He really had no other chance to survive.

We were not bad fish parents, really we weren’t. We fed them twice a day, cleaned the tank once a week and loved them the best we could. During our return trips to Pet Smart, we were interrogated each time. I get this. None of us want our lil’ fishes to end up in a watery grave. But sometimes they went a bit overboard such as when an employee would not sell us a goldfish because our 2-gallon tank “was too small for three fish.”

This, from the store that crams hundreds into one tank. Then again, I don’t ever see their fish floating belly-up.

Maybe theirs are just more proficient in the backstroke than ours.

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