Years ago my in-laws took a trip to Italy with another couple. One night at dinner, their friend, Mr. G ordered the fish. After a few minutes, the waiter came out of the kitchen and told the man, “The fish is finished.”
“Great,” Mr. G said. “Bring it out.”
The waiter then proceeded to bring meals from the kitchen for my mother-in-law, then my father-in-law, and then Mrs. G. The three of them waited for Mr. G’s dinner before they dug in. And they waited. And they waited. The fish never appeared.
Finally, Mr. G, very frustrated, called the waiter over again to inquire after the fish.
“The fish is finished,” the waiter said, opening his palms and shrugging his shoulders.
And at that moment, it dawned on the Americans. The restaurant was out of fish.
I tell this story because today, our pet fish experiment has come to an end. The last of the three has perished. The fish is finished.
Clooney just came to me to say that there was “something wrong with Anthony” the fish. I kind of knew it was coming because when I fed them today, only two fish seemed to be coming to the surface to eat. I followed Clooney up there, and sure enough…to say Anthony didn’t look good would be an understatement. His bloated yellow-tailed body was stuck upside down against the glass of the tank.
I’ve been feeding them, as I always knew I would end up doing, for almost a week now. What have they had those fish for? Two weeks?
When I brought this to the boys’ attention, they complained that they didn’t like to feed the fish because “the food smells bad.”
I think this is why I was reluctant to start them with any pets, but also why I am glad that we started with the flushable kind.