Sunday, March 11, 2012

Trust me, resuscitating goldfish never works.

Based on the title of today's blog, you might guess that this story will take a bizarre turn.  Actually no.  The title implies exactly what it means.  There is no way in Hell giving a little goldfish double beats to it's itty heart and attempting mouth to gill resuscitation will reclaim it's life.  As much as I'm certain you'd love to read to the climatic end, I'll save the cliffhanger for later. 

My household, if you haven't guessed it by now, is a strange one.  It stems from having two quirky adults as the chief parental figures, two adopted children - one of which just last night - punched a hole through his bedroom wall (lovely), and finally two dogs who in their excitement hump, chase, and bite one another the moment anyone arrives at the front door.  Our family is in constant motion.  If the children aren't in a state of emotional unrest, we - the parents - are laughing, screaming, and teasing one another because the children are behaving.  It's a queer environment to be sure.  Throw in the humping, snarling, chewing, chasing dogs and the squawking birds in the study and there is usually some sort of complete mayhem.

Since I've been able to care for animals, I've owned them.  Now in writing this, I did not mention - or I have in a very obscure way - that I absolutely have no control over my pets, in particular, my dogs but I simply adore them.  The pets all belong to me.  My kids are not at a point where they're capable of taking care of them.

At one point my oldest son was given the responsibility of a Gecko.  This is a small lizard which he had in his room and maintained in a terrarium with specific rules.  He was taught how to feed and take care of it.  Without going into the gruesome details, two geckos were tragically lost due to sad and untimely circumstances.  After the second feller's demise, Eric and I determined that our boys were not quite up for caring and maintaining pets of their own.

So, to reiterate, all the pets: the dogs, the birds, and now the goldfish I purchased on Friday (which Eric is very unhappy about), are my responsibility.  If I had my way without Eric handing me divorce paperwork, I would probably also have a cat, frog, and probably one more small dog...well, actually a St. Bernard, but I know that wouldn't work so I would totally settle for an English Bulldog.  I love animals.

I take such a personal responsibility for all the little critters in this house.  I openly wept when Mr. Froggy died.  I watched him grow from a tadpole into a frog.  I was so upset when everyone else was so lackadaisical watching him floating belly up on top of his bowl, darn it!

Well anyway, I promised you a cliffhanger...

Einstein #3 was a good fish.  He lived a nice, long life.  My dearest love, my sweet husband, Eric took it upon himself one day to clean out the fishbowl.  For some reason he had it in his mind that goldfish need warm water.  Why?  Who's to say.  Poor Einstein #3.  The minute the little feller went back into his bowl, his itty heart couldn't take the warm Pacific water.  It seized up on him.  Austynn was the first to notice that the fish stopped moving immediately.  Oh, heavens - the screaming!  William, Austynn, and I stood around dad as he netted poor Einstein #3, placed him in a cool Tupperware pond and immediately applied gentle pressure to it's itty heart.  One pump, two pump..a little oxygen to his gills...one pump, two pump...a little more oxygen...BREATHE DAMMIT,  BREATHE EINSTEIN #3!  Alas, time of death was called.  "NO MOM, NO!  I THINK HE'S STILL ALIVE!"

"Austynn, he's gone.  Dad, didn't know."

Austynn was devastated.  "Dad can never clean the fishbowl again!"

That was the last fish we had until the one I purchased on Friday.  Perhaps this is why Eric doesn't like having pets?  He's scarred from all of his traumatic memories.  My poor husband even had to officiate at Einstein #3's funeral.  Oh my...