A Fish Called Briscoe, Jack McCoy, and Detective Fin Tutuola

As you may recall, my japanese fighting fish Briscoe passed on to the big fishtank in the sky over a month ago. After a weekend o' mourning, Adam and I replaced him with a very fancy looking red ryukin goldfish named Jack McCoy who, while gorgeous, was also very very sensitive and as it turns out a poor choice for fish owners who are used to the kind of pet that you can just feed when you remember and change the water when it looks gross. So within a few weeks Jack developed an ulcer and while it was truly not ridiculous-feeling at all to have to go to the petstore and ask the 16 year old clerk for anti-ulcer meds for my goldfish, my efforts at rehabilitation were for naught because he passed on over the weekend.

Now, at this point I had already purchased a tank, pounds of gravel, silk plants, a gravel vacuum, various food, water conditioner, fish antibiotics PH testers, PH adjusters, and a faux rock. The fish was almost extraneous and probably the least expensive part of the equation. But having all this fish parapenalia meant I had to get yet another goldfish and so back to the pet store I went, for what feels like the 5th time in a month.

Once you start an utterly ridiculous endeavor, you have to complete it, right?

This time I made the mistake of telling the clerk that I had just purchased a goldfish from them a month ago and it had perished rather quickly. Instead of having the desired effect (i.e. the clerk giving me a free fish) I was instead looked upon as a murderer and an unfit fish monther and was told they would not be selling me a fish until I brought them a water sample from my tank so they could test the PH.

Did I mention that goldfish cost $3? And that small children can win them at carnivals by throwing a ping pong into their bowl?

I appreciate the seriousness of being a good pet owner but this felt even more ridiculous than spending five times what a fish costs on fish antacid for a fish that died the next day.

But of course I went home that night, dutifully scooped some water into a Ziplock and trotted back to the pet store after work. I am 27 years old people. I must have something better to do than this.

Only I don't.

So after the young clerk tested my tank water and deemed me perhaps guilty of negligence but definitely not intentional murder and then rewarded me with what he called a more hardy breed of goldfish, the fantail.

If you look closely, you can see why I named him Detective Fin Tutuola.

He definitely looks like the kind of fish who is too tough for ulcers. Who can hang in a two gallon tank and be cool with it. The kind who would say to a perp "You have the right to an attorney and if you throw up in my car, I'll kill ya".

We call him Fin for short.

So, if all goes well I won't have to talk about goldfish anymore except maybe for an occasional "Look how big he got!" (He is supposed to get to be a foot long if we are diligent about upgrading his tank as he grows.

But with my luck he will turn out to be a female and I will be back at the pet store next week buying fish tampons or something equally ridiculous.