Something's fishy

Haven't felt like blogging for a while. While I'm waiting for my muse, I
present you with this column I published in my college newspaper
about...my goldfish. (That's what I loved about being editor of the
college paper; I could print almost anything!) And, yes, he's still
alive! (knock on wood.)

***

Life's tough...especially if you're a goldfish

"He’ll be lucky if I don’t kill him."

That’s what I said my freshman year when I first laid eyes on my goldfish.

Now, you might be thinking, "Seriously, Angie - a column about a goldfish?"

But this is no ordinary goldfish. He’s a survivor, a death-defying shark
in a goldfish’s scales. He’s looked death -- and my cat --- in the eyes,
and endured.

I’d purchased my first fish a couple of months before. Poor Charlie.
Despite my best efforts, he barely lasted two weeks. I quickly bought
another and dubbed him simply "Fish." I didn’t want to become too
attached, you know.

It was a good idea, because Fish barely lasted two weeks, too.

That’s why I doubted the wisdom of taking on another victim -- ahem, pet
-- a few short weeks after Fish’s death.

But my sister, a student of veterinary medicine, had an aquarium full of
lively, rapidly-growing goldfish that she wanted to give away, and she
wouldn’t be deterred.

"These goldfish are out of control," she joked. "I keep expecting them to
die, but I just can’t kill them!"

"Oh, if you want to kill fish, I’m your woman," I told her, picking out a
solid gold beauty.

Tongue firmly in cheek, I named him Lucky.

Two and a half years later, he’s still merrily swimming in his tiny
one-gallon aquarium, lost in his own Technicolor world of neon gravel and
green plastic plants.

He’s been my companion on the three-hour road trip from home to school and
back again, never uttering a single complaint. (Sometimes I feel very much
like Bill Murray in "What About Bob.") And I haven’t killed him.

Not that I haven’t tried.

Lucky’s first brush with death came only a few weeks after I adopted him,
when I took him home to northern Indiana for spring break. I’d poured out
all but about 4 inches of his water for the ride home. Since someone had
told me that hard water is bad for fish, I’d filled a gallon jug with
"city water" from Franklin and put it in my trunk.

Once I arrived at home, I filled his tank with the water from my trunk and
forgot about it - until twenty minutes later, when I passed his tank and
realized he wasn’t moving. I stuck a tentative finger in his water.

Ice. Cold. I tapped the tank. He just sat there, eyes glazed over.

Angie the Fish Slayer strikes again. Let this be a lesson to all you fish
owners out there: Always allow the fish’s water to adjust to room
temperature before inserting fish, especially if the water’s been in your
trunk for three hours and it’s 20 degrees outside.

I placed his tank on the kitchen table in direct sunlight, hoping to thaw
him out, and sat staring and silently pleading for him to twitch his
little fins.

Then I made my second mistake of the day - I left to unload my car.

When I came back, my carnivorous cat, Lucy, was nose-to-glass, her
menacing little paws mere inches from the surface of the water.

I moved Lucky to a high shelf to defrost.

Lucky’s most harrowing road trip was yet to come.

On my way home for Christmas break my sophomore year, I decided to stop at
Butler University in Indianapolis to visit my best friend. I’d placed
Lucky on the floor of my car on the passenger side and sloppily wedged a
towel around his tank to keep it from tipping over.

I’ve never been very good at physics, so the chain of events should have
come as no surprise. I was going a little bit too fast for downtown
Indianapolis, trying to make a green light. I made the light and turned
right…going about 40 miles per hour…and out of the corner of my eye, I saw
Lucky’s tank fall on its side.

"Ahhhh!" I screamed, imagining my poor goldfish buried alive in a tidal
wave of neon gravel.

Trying to keep my eyes on traffic, I grabbed his tank and sat it upright
as best I could. I couldn’t see him in the tank, which was nearly empty of
water. I suddenly remembered the bottle of water in my cup holder. One
hand on my steering wheel, I blindly poured the bottle into his tank with
the other hand.

"Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die," I chanted.

After the longest two minutes of my life (and probably Lucky’s life), I
found a place to pull over. I braced myself for the carnage and peered
down into Lucky’s tank.

He was darting around the tank in about two inches of water, glaring at
me. I could almost hear him saying, "Took that corner a little fast,
didn’t you, Ang?"

Whew.

I’ve always considered myself a dog person, but goldfish have a lot going
for them. They’re quiet, cheap and cute. They have a memory span of about
three seconds, so they don’t remember murder attempts. They’re never
bored, because by the time they complete a lap around their plastic
plants, they’ve already forgotten where they were going.

And until I met Lucky, I would have said "easily replaceable." Now I’m not
so sure about that.