Family Daze
Fish owner watches money and pet go down the drain
By Debbie Farmer
It's clear to me that there are two types of goldfish owners in this world: those who have tanks with schools of thriving fish that vaguely resemble a display in the local aquarium, and others who might as well save time by taking their goldfish directly from the pet store to the nearest toilet bowl, since that's where it's going to end up, anyway. I am clearly the latter.
Before you go running off to call the Goldfish Society of America, I want you to know I think keeping a goldfish for a pet is a very important responsibility not to be taken lightly. Over the years, however, no matter how hard I try, my relationship with fish has always ranked right up there with my relationships to African violets and hothouse ferns.
Everything starts out easily enough. After all, any fool walking into a pet store knows that all you need to care for a cute, little goldfish is some water and a bowl. Right? It's not until much later, after your family has spent two hours picking out the one and only most-perfect-fish-on-the-entire-planet, that you learn that the kind of equipment you need has absolutely nothing to do with water or bowls. No siree.
Then something mysterious happens and, before you know it, you, being the well-meaning, conscientious pet owner that you are, emerge from the store with a 55-gallon tank, a hood with fluorescent lighting, a tank stand, two Whisper 3 power filters, a large air stone, six feet of airline tubing, large air pump, power strip, gravel, fish food, filter replacements, dechlorinator, thermometer, cork, blankets to cushion tank in car, plastic plants, one-way air valve, 10-gallon tank for water changes, two buckets for water changes, a gravel siphon and a goldfish.
And let me just say that another misconception about goldfish is that because they are quiet and spend their day swimming around in five inch circles, you might think they have no discernible personality or inherent intelligence, much as, say, some politicians.
This just isn't true, however. Just ask my friend, Marilyn, who once had a fish named Sam. Now, to the untrained eye, he looked like an ordinary, docile fish. You would never guess by his laissez-faire demeanor that the reason he was swimming all alone in a 55-gallon tank was because he had a tendency to treat all of the other fish like free, happy-hour hors d'oeuvres.
Or that he spent most of his day trying to suffocate the ceramic deep-sea diver under gravel. Or that, every time the family dog wandered by, he lunged forward and followed it along the front of the tank with his lips puckered into a snarl. Face it, Sam was a fish with a heavy-duty attitude problem, but you must admit, he had personality.
I've also learned that you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat their fish. My friend, JoAnne, a sensitive type, brought her beta fish, Charlie, along on the family vacation to Disneyland. He traveled 700 miles in a jar that was propped securely into the base of her son's potty seat.
And, according to Joanne, he had a great time. Although I didn't ask her how she knew this--or any of the other questions running through my mind as: "Where did he go when the potty was in use?" "Did he prefer the front seat or the back?" "Just how, for gosh sakes, did you strap him into the roller coaster?"
But, really, who am I to poke fun?
Especially when my experience owning a goldfish only lasted three weeks. Just long enough for me to buy $150 worth of supplies and to be fooled into thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, a delicate living creature could survive against all odds and actually thrive under my care.
Sometimes I don't believe how naive I can be.
Debbie Farmer is the author of Life in the Fast-Food Lane: Surviving the Chaos of Parenting. Questions or comments? Email her at paradigmnews@familydaze.com.
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
