It's 12:30 Friday, and I am racing through Wal-Mart on a mission to rescue a fish. Net: check. Food: check. Bottled water: check. Boy who tried to kill fish: check.
The tale: I awoke to find my three year old playing in my room with some of his sister's toys. He reeked of tweenerrific fruit-scented body spray. I immediately went into her room to clean up what I was sure was a puddle of body spray on the floor. Instinctively I looked at Bubbles' tank (funny, since every other day since his purchase, I've forgotten he even existed). It was a cloudy, smelly mess, and at first I couldn't even find Bubbles. I was immediately upset, thinking about the poor, helpless animal that had the misfortune of being brought into this family, and how my daughter would react to the death of her first pet, and only 4 days after she got him. I turned to my toddler, "What did you do to this fish?" I sobbed.
"Nothing!" he insisted. But there was the evidence: the trail of water drops, the murky tank water, the inch-thick layer of fish flakes covering the bottom of the tank. Then I found Bubbles, at the top of the tank - thankfully, alive. I had to get him out of there. I called my husband. "Where is the fish net?"
"We didn't buy one yet," he said. Oh, no. "I'd hurry to the store. That fish is going to die." Oh, nonononono.
Hurry I did. I grabbed the net, new food, and some water with one hand while carrying my son in the other. I took my money out while still waiting in line to eliminate the delay of searching for it after the items were rung up. We rushed back to the car, and as soon as we got home I left my boy to get his own coat and shoes off while I ran upstairs to save the dying fish. I got the water to the perfect temperature, grabbed the net, and transferred the still alive (yay!) fish. Rescue mission: accomplished.
I don't really know much about fish. The whole situation may not have been as urgent as I perceived it, but by goodness, I was not going to just wait around wondering if that fish was suffering. And Bubbles is alive and barely moving in all his lethargic bettaesque* glory. I'm not sure I could've done better if I was a professional vet.
*I enjoy making up words.
