The little angel's betta fish, Simon, went down the toilet, where all streams go to the ocean, last week. I bought Simon on a whim as a surprise one day, because I had fond memories of my own betta fish in college and because I think every child needs a fish. My daughter hadn't even asked for one; it was just one of those impulse things I do as a mother because I can. When she came home from school that day, I showed her Simon, and I think I was more excited than she was, but she grew to love him and shed a tear when we made the decision that anyone who has fungus growing on his side and who has eaten part of his own tail is probably on the shady side of the tree now. RIP, Simon.
We made a trip to the pet store and came home with a new tank and a new betta fish, which the little angel named Serendipity without really knowing what that name meant. I promised to buy more distilled water so we could take better care of the tank, even though Simon did actually live for three years through his murk and that is pretty good for a betta fish. It's been a week and it's time to start switching out half the water like the man at the pet shop told us to do. The man who also looked at us with his jaw dropped when we admitted we never turned out the light on Simon's tank and said, "You know they don't have eyelids, right?" and made me feel as though we had strapped Simon to a chair and played The Cure and showed him non-stop video of the bombing of Hiroshima. So now we turn out the light for Serendipity at night.
That fish is so spoiled.