A watery grave decision

So, I'm on the phone with Shay earlier, wandering around the apartment as I'm talking when I notice that one of my 10+ fish has died (I have four tanks in the living room: two 10-gallon tanks and two 20-gallon). It is one of my fantailed goldfish who--until today--had managed to live 3 years despite being bloated beyond reason and constantly swimming upside-down.

"Shit," I mutter as I scoop him up into the net, "should I flush him? He's pretty big." Shay offers her backyard for a proper memorial service but I worry that he'll be rotted by the time I schlep out to her house in LI again.

"Damn, Jenn, that's the problem with your fish living so long," Shay observes. "They grow too big to flush."

Agreed. Against every gut instinct in me, I flush the bloated goldfish (about the size of my fist) down the toilet.

I quickly realize that I've made a terrible mistake as the toilet water begins to rise up to its seat. Flush after flush does nothing to help the situation; clearly, he's stuck somewhere in the labyrinth of porcelain pipes I neglected to consider.


Not sure why I always have to illustrate the blog but this was too interesting to pass up: a $299 "Fish and Flush" toilet (www.fishnflush.com/order.asp).

Several hours later, I'm on the phone with J-Sok, recapping the failed toilet funeral and wondering how I'm going to sell the "I don't know what's wrong with it" story to my super tomorrow. J-Sok jumps on yet another opportunity to berate my skills as a pet owner.

"Wow. One of your fish died. What a surprise. Do you buy pets with the sole purpose of killing them?"

"No, this fish lived nearly 3 years, J. He had a good life despite suffering from fish gout."

"Why the hell did you flush him anyway? Why are fish the only pets that we flush? You wouldn't flush a hamster or cat. Why flush a fish? Don't they deserve to be buried, too?"

"I don't know, J. Maybe it's 'cause they're used to being in water so the toilet makes sense somehow."

Back to the bathroom to try another round of plunging but to no avail. Next, I try snaking an unraveled coat hanger into the winding pipes to dislodge the fish. Several unsuccessful attempts underscore my desperate need for Liquid Plumber. I resolve to run out for a bottle in the morning. In the meantime, I'm trying to dissolve the scaly corpse (I poured a half a bottle of bleach in the toilet -- at the very least, it will be clean enough to drink out of).

Why so much effort? After all, I generously tip my super at Christmas -- why try to fix it on my own? Simple: I'm afraid he'll discover the fish tomorrow and don't care to cement my reputation with him for bizarre behavior (a string of crazy roommates including one anorexic alcoholic who was carried out by EMS twice in the month she lived here laid the foundation for 4G's legend).

Whether I'm eventually outed as a fish flusher or not, I've learned my lesson: fish deserve to be buried, too (especially when they're bigger than a gerbil).

Other Brooklyn Zoo news:
I have given up on keeping crickets as pets. After several batches, only one qualified as a "success" (with me being lulled to sleep by actual cricket sounds). Unfortunately, that batch died while I was out in the Grand Canyon. I returned to find their hollowed bodies huddled in a corner of the cozy terrarium I'd made for them. Yes, J-Sok, I'm a bad pet owner.

I'm now searching for a CD of cricket sounds. Suggestions?

Jesus rocks

After just one week of basking in the mind-melting joy that is my bedroom, Fresh (the new fighting fish) was found dead today in his bowl. I was shocked. As I flushed him down the toilet, I mused, "something's fishy here."

I mean, c'mon, that's it? After nearly an hour in PETCO conducting "fin offs" and closely weighing my options, he only lives a week? I began to examine the variables and how Wally lived nearly 3 years while Fresh only lasted one week. Hmmmmm...

Uh-oh. After Wally died, I replaced the bowl's aquarium rocks with decorative ones I'd bought at Ikea a few months back (after just one Sunday at Ikea with me, my Mom dubbed it "I-Kill-Ya" and refuses to ever step foot in the place again).

I didn't realize they could be poisonous but now that I think about it, I'm sure the rocks were made in either the Phillipines or China (most Ikea products are). I mean, if they make toothpaste with antifreeze, what do you think they coat deocrative rocks with?

I feel awful. Fresh was likely poisoned by Knaster (no, no, not a chemical but Ikea's weirdo name for the rocks I bought). Damn you, Ikea, and your impossible outsourcing of allegedly Swedish goods!

So, I stopped at the pet store tonight and bought aquarium-specific rocks (no fish yet). I feel really good about these new rocks if only because they were made by God and blessed by Jesus. Seriously. I checked the back of the bag just to be sure they weren't plutonium and was very surprised at what I read:

"If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." It is the desire of the Estes Company that the stones in this bag will cry out about the quality of product, and the integrity, honesty, and dedication of the owners and managers of this company. There is a reason why we find it so very important to hold on to these principles. If you want to know more, you can call us at 973-890-2220, or check out our website - www.estesco.com"

What the...so, of course I went to their site when I got home and found a very detailed explanation under the "Our Beliefs" tab as to why THESE rocks won't kill my next fighting fish. In fact, they'll probably ensure his soul's eternal salvation:



So, I've got aquarium rocks made by fishers of men. I feel good about that (it beats rocks made by Communist dictators). I'll get a new fish next week, I guess. Worst case scenario: I wake up one day to find a multitude of fish and bread loaves floating in the bowl with it.

Today's fresh fish

I’ve been mulling over an odd question for the last two days: what is an appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of a pet fish before buying a new one?

I guess if I was religious, I could turn to a belief for an answer -- it’s good for stuff like that. Hindu? 13 days. Jewish? 1 week. Muslim? 3 days. Daytime Dramish? 2 minutes (5 if your fish is in a coma or believed lost at sea).

It’s been 10 days since I returned from FL to find that Wally the Fighting-for-His-Life Fish died while I was gone (so I’m not even sure about the date I’d begin counting from as part of a mourning period). Faced with an empty bowl on my bedroom wall and nothing to dictate my mourning period, I followed my gut (and aesthetic values) and headed to PETCO today.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time examining the 20+ fighting fish on display. Before his agonizing death, Wally had lived nearly 3 years (so this new fish could be staring at me night after night for years to come). I stared at each fish, gauged how I felt if they stared back and then gave a thumbs up or down.

Out of respect, I was also very cognizant of a need for one that didn’t look like Wally (despite the sane half of my brain saying, "get another red one and call it a day before I imagine a bus and throw myself in front of it"). But so many colors to choose from! Purple, light purple, blue, dark blue, greenish teal and multicolored, even! It was too much for someone who deliberated six months over a paint color for a 5’ x 9’ dining room wall.

Luckily, I’d stopped and shopped in Stop n’ Shop across the street before hitting PETCO so there were frozen goodies in the car to consider. I finally settled on a vibrant blue one because he did so well in the "fin off." (Similar to a "walk off" in modeling where two models strut to see who will make the show, I’d held a "fin off" by positioning top candidates next to each other to see whose fins would flare best and who had the most moxie. At that point, the sane half of my brain was hit by an imaginary bus and died.)

I’ve since named him "Fresh" (get it? as in "fresh fish") and am very happy with him so far. He’s fiesty and flashes the same "hateful humans, shutting your eyes for hours at a time!" look that Wally used to give me every morning. I don’t feel bad about getting him 10 days after flushing Wally so I guess I’m doing alright by my own religion.


"Fresh" in his spacious new digs, staring at the dinky contraption he'd spent God-knows-how-long in before I saved him from an anonymous death in it at PETCO.

My fighting (for his life) fish

So, I'm faced with a troubling situation about my fighting fish Wally (whose name is short for "Wallflower" 'cause he lives in a bowl nailed to the wall near my bed -- see photo). Here's the deal...

Before I left to spend Christmas with the fam, I wanted to be sure Wally was all set with fresh, clean water. I brought his bowl into the bathroom to do a quick water change per our usual. And that's where the crisis and my current predicament began.

Since I got Wally over 3 years ago, he's developed a knack for launching himself out of the net when I transfer him from the bowl to his holding tank (a small cup on the side of the sink). Trouble is, I don't have a parachute or a stunt double for him and he ends up landing on the bathroom floor.

It's happened like 3 times now out of the 40 times I've changed the water. Each time he does it, I shriek for 5 seconds while desperately trying to delicately pick him up and put him back in the holding tank (with him doing the quiver the entire time, of course). Within an hour, he shakes off the dust bunnies and shock as though nothing ever happened (he's got to keep his tough guy image as a fighting fish, ya know).

This last time before Christmas, however, was longer than 5 seconds. He'd wedged himself far in the dark corner behind the sink. It felt like 3 minutes (but was probably 15-20 seconds) before I finally got him back in the tank. I wished for Santa Claus to bring him new gills and left for the week, hoping I'd find him okay when I got back.

I thought it was good news to find him alive, if not still dazed, when I returned. I now realize that perhaps it was bad news. It's been over 3 months now and he hasn't sprung back; instead, his health has been on a slow decline ever since. I guess my wish should've been for Santa to flush him down the toilet?

And that's where the problem is: I can't flush a fish that's still alive down the toilet! I think Wally has a right to live and who am I to take that away? I like him, too. I looked forward to falling asleep while watching him swim angrily above my head, cursing me and my ability to close my eyes.

But, a big part of me also thinks the life Wally has now may not be worth living. His breathing is very labored and he hasn't eaten in over a month (I give him food pellets that dissolve in the bowl but I can't imagine it's been helpful). His latest thing is flipping completely over on his backside and laying on the bottom of the tank for hours...still breathing, still fighting.



Every night, I watch him intently for signs of improvement but then resign myself to the hard truth that he is dying. What. A. Slow. Death. Seriously, I don't think even I could hang on this long if I fell off a building and drowned for 20 seconds immediately after (the human equivalent of his accident).

So, I keep looking for a sign like Terri Schiavo's image in my toast. Nothing. I'm torn between the right to live and the right to die. What would Jesus do? What would YOU do?

On second thought, I shouldn't claim to be all that concerned about ethics. I mean, if I did, would I keep a fish imprisoned in a bowl nailed to the wall?

p.s. yes, I keep a kamikazi fish in the same bedroom that I keep the pet crickets (see previous "Jiminy Crickets!" blog). Speaking of which, here's the news from that side of the room...

The Cricket Update
I started with 10 (or was it 11? am I a bad pet owner?) and can now only verify that 3 are still in there. Not sure if the survivors ate the others or what. I give them food and refresh their "water pillow" once a week so maybe it was the low humidity? [shrug]

As for the 3 who have made it this far, two are female and one is male (he's either very happy about it or, if he is in fact a homosexual deaf mute, not too happy). The females, of course, are KICKIN' ASS! Their legs/antennae are approaching cockroach levels of grossness. In fact, my crickets are so big that I can almost see their wings! (As you may recall, a cricket's wings are the source of that wonderful noise I've been dying to hear all these years as I fall asleep.)

But, alas, to date: NOT A SINGLE CHIRP. Just the sound of my brain caught in an endless loop of "should I flush Wally?" "no, Wally is one of God's creatures!" like some goddamn right-to-life protest.