Oh, Carnival Fish, why won't you die?

OK, OK, I know. It’s the end of the school year with all the attendant performances and random gifts that need to be purchased, so, please, no more, where-the-hell-are-you-mail. I’m barely hangin’ on here.

So, yes, that is a picture* of the goddamn carnival fish from last year. No, I’m not kidding. This fish is still alive. Not just alive, but thriving. Not much has changed in Harold’s small, boring world. He’s still only got the purple rocks, fake plant and pirate treasure chest to keep him company, and he’s still swimming in a bowl full of unfiltered tap water that usually includes a high percentage of fecal matter, but this fish behaves as if he’s in the rare tropical fish exhibit at Sea World.

I suppose part of what’s keeping him alive is his change in location. As I wrote last year, Harold had taken up residence in the girls’ room, which I decided was the best way to expedite his demise, knowing H’s care of pets has a distinct as-needed aspect – the dog has to literally be doing laps around H, scraping his asshole on the rug, ala Toby from the Stanley Steamer commercials**, in order for him to contemplate possibly taking him to the vet to have his annal glands squeezed*** - so it was less than likely he’d remember to change Harold’s shitty water.

So what happens? You all know. H does not change the water, as predicted, and I wind up bring Harold down to live in the kitchen where I give him the malocchio twice a day when I feed him , despite the girls’ promises that they would be in charge of his care. I keep making jokes about flushing him, while the girls squeal, “Nooo, Mommy!”. Then Christmas morning I come down and realize Harold is not moving. He’s sort of drifting around the bottom of the bowl, completely still. His bowl is directly in front of the kitchen window that had been left open during the Christmas Eve fish-fest. The combination of cold air and watching he aquatic brethren being butchered by the pound must’ve been to much for him. “You can’t die to day you little shit!” I yell as I frantically tap the side of the bowl. And he wakes with a start. The damn fish was asleep. I realized at that moment I’d miss this tough little asshole of a fish, and from that point on things have been different between me and Harold.

I’m not going to lie and say I love having a fish now. I still sigh dramatically as I wash all the fish crap out of the bottom of his bowl, but we have found a way to pleasantly coexist. As a reward for my perceived change of heart, Harold has started acting, for lack of a better word, like a dog. If you come over to his bowl, he swims right up to you, happily wagging his tail and popping his face above the surface. He has become our own Air Jaws, jumping a little bit out of the water when I feed him. Having cocktails in the kitchen one night****, H and I were convinced the faucet was leaking as we kept hearing water. It was Harold bobbing up and down at the surface, trying to get our attention.

The girls are so excited because Harold’s “Gotcha Day” is Friday. Exactly one year ago, we brought our little piscine friend home. They are determined to have a party, which, between planning the Girl Scout moving up ceremony, doing interviews for the new pre-school director, preparing for #2’s birthday party, Father’s Day for twelve, and my sister and her wife coming into town, is not going to happen. Harold and I have reached a begrudging peace, let’s not go too far.

Watch as I’m up at eleven o’clock at night Thursday night mixing up some Duncan Hines.

*Notice the evaporation ring of tap water calcification around the top since it’s been three weeks since I changed his water.
**I felt so validated after seeing that commercial, knowing I wasn’t the only one whose dog uses the carpet as a large piece of toilet paper. But sadly, I am not running to the phone to have my rugs cleaned afterwards.
***Which I'm sure is what the vet envisioned when he dreamed of caring for animals - wrestling a hundred pound dog to the ground to squeeze nasty gunk out of his asshole.
****We used to get dressed up and go out to bars where we were served drinks and snacks, now we hide in the kitchen trying to suck down alcohol so we don’t have to provide that service.