When Paul’s daughter was five, she wanted a cat. He told her that a cat is a lot of work, but that if she could manage a ten-gallon aquarium for a year, he would consider buying a cat. He wanted to teach his daughter about “responsibility”.
So, he bought an aquarium and filled it with tropical fish – angel fish, tetras, swordtails, and guppies. Buying a single goldfish to add to the mix was his daughter’s idea. “Let’s call him Freddy,” she said.
At the end of the first week, Paul showed her how to clean the aquarium. While tapping a few drops of biological additive into the tank, he accidentally dropped the entire bottle into the water, emptying all the contents. He fished out the empty bottle and read the label. “This is an all-natural product; it is impossible to overdose.” The next morning, all of the fish were dead.
Except Freddy.
After flushing the dead fish down the toilet, Paul and his daughter trudged off to the pet store and bought more angel fish, tetras, swordtails, and guppies. Soon after, their creative juices flowing, they thought they’d create a veil of bubbles at the back of the aquarium, for artistic effect. So, he bought an aerator. Not an aerator for a ten-gallon tank. That was too small. No, he bought an aerator for a fifty-gallon tank, which created the veil of bubbles along the full length of the tank, just like they wanted. The next morning, his daughter called him into the study. She pointed at the aquarium. All of the fish were dead.
Except Freddy.
He looked at his daughter and she looked at him. Yes, it was working. She was learning about “responsibility”.
Many months later, Paul was sitting near the aquarium working. Freddy was swimming alone. Paul had bought nearly one hundred tropical fish since he had bought the fish tank and none of them had survived, so Freddy was friendless. While Paul was working, there was a splash, followed by a scratching sound, followed by silence. He was absorbed in his work, but his subconscious was busy, busy, busy. Splashing, scratching, silence. Splashing, scratching, silence. And suddenly it came to him. Freddy had jumped out of the aquarium!
Paul looked over at the tank, squinted to see through the filthy, algae-encrusted glass and saw that, indeed, Freddy was missing. He dragged the shelf away from the wall, reached underneath, and dragged the lifeless body of Freddy through a half-inch of dust. He held him up by the tail. Freddy was as limp as a month-old piece of celery.
Paul was going to flush Freddy down the toilet until he remembered something a friend had told him. She said, “Sometimes the fish you flush down the toilet come back to life and bite you when you’re on the toilet seat.” So, he decided to bury Freddy, but first dipped him in the aquarium to wash him off. And when he did, Freddy swam away.
Oh, he was swimming all crooked and lop-sided, and bumping into things, but he was swimming.
That summer, Paul and his wife had a garden party with some neighbourhood couples. The couples had daughters the same age as their daughter. The girls played upstairs, but after a while, all seemed a little too quiet. Paul went to investigate. To get to his daughter’s room, he had to pass the door to the room with the aquarium, which, to his surprise, was open. The door had always been closed recently because the smell from the uncleaned aquarium was often overwhelming and made one’s eyes water.
Paul noticed a fish net floating on the top of the water. Freddy was missing! Somebody had been fishing! Paul went into his daughter’s room, looked down, and there, in the Barbie swimming pool, lay Freddy. He was a very large goldfish by that point, so his head hung over one side of the pool and his tail over the other.
Paul picked him up and held him by the tail. Freddy was as limp as a wet piece of vermicelli. Paul considered Freddy’s previous miracles and decided to put him back in his aquarium. Freddy sank to the bottom, nose down. Paul watched him for a minute through the filthy, algae-encrusted glass, but it looked like it was truly over. Freddy was finally dead.
Later that evening, his daughter called him upstairs. Holding her nose with one hand, she was pointing at the aquarium with the other. Freddy was swimming!
Oh, he was swimming all crooked and lop-sided, and bumping into things, but he was swimming.
Paul looked at his daughter and she looked at him. They nodded in unison. The lesson of responsibility was concluded. It was time. Time to buy a cat.