No more fish

My boyfriend and I thought it would be a great idea to get a fish. They are cheap, nice to look at, and very low maintenance. So we went out and bought one, and named him Mr. Carter. We were very proud of that fish. He was our first pet together. Things went well for a while, we took great care of Mr. Carter. We did all things necessary for a fish's survival. We looked at him, we fed him, and we changed the water. Or, rather, I changed the water. See, I think that other people can do things just fine, but that they are done BETTER when I do them. But one day I was busy, and Michael insisted on changing the water for me. He was trying to be helpful. I guess he didn't want his fish to be cold, because he put poor Mr. Carter in warm water. And Mr. Carter swam upside down in his bowl all that night and the next day. I was distraught, thinking we should flush him or something. Michael said he was gonna be ok. He was ok, when he finally stopped swimming for good. RIP, Mr. Carter.

Part 2 of the fish phase, we get Rocky, a fat fantail goldfish, and he is a much better fish than Carter, in my opinion. I jokingly say that when he dies we can have Rocky 2, Rocky 3, etc... Now, some back story: I need you to know that I have a cat, a beautiful, long haired, sweetheart who I adopted from the humane society after volunteering there. She is my love, and her name is Donatella. While Rocky is still with us (you see where this is going, don't you?) my cat gets lost, (and when I say lost, I mean the horrible person subletting for the summer from my roommate let her out while I was gone) and I am absolutely mortified. I lost sleep, I searched my apartment complex every day looking for her, I put up more posters than there was wall space to put them on.... during this week from hell let's flash back to dear Rocky, who lives with my boyfriend. Michael decides to set off a fogger to clear the bugs from his college student grade housing. I tell him I don't like those things, don't want to breathe that stuff. Well, we go to his place to eat dinner before another night of cat searching, and I make my way through the (imagined) green fog of poison and skulls with crossbones hanging wetly in the air to check on Rocky. What do I see? Rocky floating belly up. This is just too much for me. Emotional breakdown insues. I declare us OUT OF THE FISH BUSINESS.

Michael wants a dog, all boys want dogs, right? We journey to his mother's house on Saturday to put down his old dog, a nasty looking corgi mix with what looks like cushings disease. And on top of that, my cat has been gone nearly a full week. How do we deal? Grab a classifieds, scan the free pets section. We call and call and call, every add proclaiming boldly, "lab mix," or "bulldog mix" all to no avail. Downtrodden, I say to him, "One will come along." Then I notice another add, saying only that they had "cute adorable puppies" for free. Now, I'm not familiar with that breed, but I was in a what the hell kind of mood. I inquired, and got the pleasing reply that they were Lab mixes, and the Lab is the epitome of dog to Michael. So we go look, and when we get there I figure out the other half of the mix: Heeler, or Australian cattle dog, MY favorite kind. Perfection. So we don't even think, we snatch one up, knowing we don't have any of the necessities but we'll worry about that later.

All the ride home I hold the sweet little boy in my lap, and we talk about quality dog names for our new best friend. Finally, it hits me. From our mutual favorite book, Lonesome Dove, I pull the name. "Gus," I say, "Let's call him Gus." We go to the pet store before even going home, to get him a collar and tag. That's my biggest regret with my cat, no collar and tag. I've seen the stats, 90% of lost pets without collar and tag are not recovered. Michael types in the tag making machine, GUS. Then he looks at me and grins, backspaces, types AUGUSTUS. I tell him that's a big name for a little dog, but he'll grow into it one day.

I know what you're thinking. But I have not forgotten about that cat, even with all the excitement of the new pup that weekend. Monday morning, getting ready for school I get a call that makes me skip class. Someone has seen the posters, he has my cat, he thinks it's her for sure. I've had a couple of false alarms, people seeing shadows in the complex at night, and "maybe it's your cat, I can't tell." This is different, it feels different, and I know it's her. Sounds like her, "she's inside our store, been here since Friday, we took her out back and put her over the fence of the complex, but she came back" Well sure she did, she has enough sense to know that when you stay in the same place when you are lost, you will get found. So I went and reclaimed my cat; dirty, thin, and happy to see me. Luckily, she's the only cat I have ever know that does not mind a bath. No kidding, she really doesn't.

Here's a picture of her after her bath, looking wet and extra skinny. Now she lives at Michael's house, to avoid any more incident. So now we have a dog, and a cat, and we have not killed either one of them! And I still stand firm: NO more fish. I'd like to think of those fish as a substitute for what we really wanted, but were hesitant to get. Now that we have Gus, I can put the bowl away.