If you aren’t on facebook (and why aren’t you?) then you may be a little confused by my goodbye post.  This is Chikezie.  Our puppy dog.  He’s been with us nearly 2 years.  You can read his Welcome Home Doggie post if you missed it the first time.  He was such a good dog.  Really good.  So obedient.  Never snaps at the kids.  Never, in two years, potty-ed in the house.  Ran with the kids, chased the deer and big dogs off.

But animals need money.  And, though we could budget enough to keep him, when we get down to the last few dollars at each payday – we’ll always choose the childrens’ interests.  Without hesitation.  And there are always children’s interests. 

(Pause here, I want no “this is how you could’ve afforded to keep him” I can’t take anymore, frankly.  We made the decision.  Now, I just want hugs or nothing at all.)

My mom called her groomer who just yesterday had a very nice woman asking for a little house dog.  She already had one little doggie and 2 children.  That’s the kind of home he needs – kids and other doggies.  He thrives on chaos.  By the time my mom got here, she said her groomer was actually debating keeping him for herself (she has a 3rd grader and a doggie daycare).  I lean toward the groomer, because the kids could go see him when we’re in town.  (Though, I think maybe that would hurt worse in the long run?)

I’ve cried for 2 days over this.  My kids are constantly asking how we can keep him, if the quarter they’re offering up would be enough, that TheOldest has been saving his money since September, if he’s happy in his new home, if we can go see him, if his new owners are bloggers or on facebook, if Santa will bring us a new puppy next Christmas.  It did not help when my elderly well-meaning next door neighbor offered to take him on the spot yesterday for his updates and to do it twice yearly for us forever.  In front of the kids.  Because it’s hard to explain to desperate eight year olds the concept of owe no man nothing.

I know we made the right decision (I think).  I know we did the responsible thing.  I just don’t want the kids to be scarred for life.  I don’t want to see them hurt.  I don’t want them to worry about money - because we’re just fine.  I don’t want it to be about me and my decisions.  I don’t want to severely regret this decision down the road – because great dogs don’t just come along everyday – not the kind that fit into our family so perfectly. 

I just miss that dog.

This fish is somethin’ else.

Once upon a time, way less than a year ago, we got 4 fish. Who’s names were Penny, Fish, Oliver, and Pirates of the Caribbean Enemy. Then a few months ago I did some sort of toxic something to them and found 3 of them dead in the morning. We rescued this one and gave the others a toilet bowl funeral. I really didn’t expect this fish to make it. But it did.

And though I’m not really trying to kill it, it just lives on. Of it’s own will. I don’t change the tank nearly enough. I forget to feed it for days on end. What can I say? I’m not a good fish owner. But the other day, Survivor (as the kids have started calling him), made it through the biggest test yet.

When I get ready to clean out his aquarium I put him in a mason jar of clean water while I clean out and then let the water temperature adjust before transferring him back to his aquarium. In the jar is where he was this particular day.

BigMan had disappeared quietly long enough for me to notice (you know it’s gonna be good when you start with this). I found him sitting on the counter with a half empty bottle of glue and the mason jar clouded with a purple lump of playdough. While I was processing this information I realized the fish was swimming peacefully in the aquarium. When questioned, BigMan told us that he had put Survivor into his home. With.His.Hand.

Every time I write something about our animals and I get ready to put it in a category I get cracked up that I put “Animals” under the the “Ridiculous” category. Because they always are.

This was written a few weeks ago and I meant to get a picture of him in the mason jar to go along with the post.  But then yesterday we awoke to find him… floating.  Sideways.  So, Survivor, is not… anymore.  We had a funeral for him.  And in keeping with his poor pitiful life with us, after the memorial service around the “bowl” – we flushed him.  And he wouldn’t flush.  Just swirled around and floated again.  So, in my kids’ lowest moment with their fish, I exclaimed, “Hold on, I gotta get the camera.”  Poor fish, no dignity.  Even in death.

Gotta add, while telling my honey about the ordeal over dinner last night, my husband says, “Well, now Survivor’s in Fishville.”  To which ThePrincess replied, “No, Daddy, he’s in Godville.”

I knew some of the fish were kinda sickly lookin’.  My husband pointed out one day recently that the gold fish we bought were losing their gold.  One was particularly white.  Enough so that he bet me the time of his death.  I took the bet – right down to 10:30am Christmas morning.  I know, don’t tell my children.

Christmas morn came and went without incident and I was oh, so proud.  I had won the bet and the fish had won it’s life.

Then on Deconstructed – one of our newest fav sci-shows they tore apart a fish filter and talked about the toxicity of ammonia build-up.  Guilted into cleaning out the cloudy fish-home, I set to work on cleaning out a holding tank while their permanent home was scrubbed out and set with water to adjust to room temperature.  I grabbed a jar that I had previously kept flour in (c’mon, I am a clean person – I always bleach everything before it’s ready for human consumption stuff again).  And rinsed it out really good.

Or so I thought.

I made the transfer.

By the next morning the sickliest of them all was on the bottom of the bowl.

And two others were swimming sideways.

So, the good mother that I am told my children and ‘fessed up.  C’mon, you know me better than that.  I stacked dirty dishes in front of the container until they were all dead (or so I thought) so that I could deal with the drama all at once.

Yesterday morning I brought all my children to the kitchen table and gave a talk on the extremely short life span of a gold fish (shut up, you do too know that they only live 3 months).  We looked at the bowl.  We wiped tears away.  My daughter said we should pray for them.  I explained they were through, no prayer’s gonna help ‘em now, but we did thank God for letting us have fish for a time.  Then we discussed mercy killing of the fourth that was now swimming sideways, but Daddy started singing “I’m a survivor” and we (against my will) saved it.  My view is “he’s almost dead, why prolong the pain?”  Yeah, I’m compassionate like that.

We then went and gathered ’round the potty, think: Huxtables, and said our final goodbyes.

Who of Fish, Penny, Oliver, and Pirates of the Caribbean Enemy survived?  Your guess is as good as mine.  TheOldest suggested we call TheSurvivor a combination of all the fish names in memory of the other three.  Sounds good to me.

Live on OliverPennyPiratesOfTheCaribbeanEnemyFish.  Live on.

How ’bout now?

Are other people’s animals as retarded as ours?