The Fish Tank Incident of 2008
It was a normal Saturday morning and all was quiet. The skies were a bit cloudy and the fish were swimming happily. Coffee brewing in my French Press as I prepared a mug with a shot of cream, farm fresh and locally grown. Seth and James, settled happily into their Disney Channel marathon of Little Einsteins and Handy Manny. A cello was playing Mozart as Rocket dodged and was going super fast in order to escape the evil clutches of Big Jet.
I poured the steaming brew into my mug and realized that I hadn't fed the fish. In a few days. Only two survived the original setup process of the ten-gallon river tank that had belonged to one James Curran - my father. The tank was approximately 15 years old, perhaps older. It was split in two with a water fall effect. Water pumped up from one side and emptied on the other. The tank had a small water fall as the water traveled from right to left. Fish could in turn jump from one side to the other. Seth in particular was drawn to the tank. He could often be found elbow deep and holding a handful of gravel, plastic plants and occasionally a fish. One orange gourami met his fate when Seth decided that he should come and play in his room with him. He quietly slipped the fish into his palm and went to play trains with him. Hours later when it became close to lunch time I invited Seth into the kitchen to choose macaroni and cheese or tuna sandwich, I noticed the orange fin popping out through his fingers.
On this particular morning, as I dropped a few flakes into the tank I reflected that since the move, Seth seemed uninterested in the tank. The idea of adding a few fish crossed my mind. It no longer seemed a suicide mission that it surely would have been not six months earlier. Thunder cracked and the sky lit up with lightening streaks*. Odd... the sun had been out just moments ago. I slowly stood, gently closed the cover and twisted the small, brown cover onto the yellow fish food container. I took the five steps leading into the kitchen, placed the food back into the cabinet when I heard it. A loud crash, glass shattering and then the sound of water.
I ran back into the room to find Seth, unscathed but looking guilty as hell, standing and staring at the floor. There it was: the tank and the stand overturned. Glass shattered and ten gallons of water pouring onto the beautiful, bright gold shag rug, circa 1972. An antique carpet soaked and ruined under the gravel, rocks and plants. Two tiny fish leaping for their lives. Alive, yes, but homeless and lost.
Unsure what to grab first, I did what any rational person would do. I ran screaming through house "WHERE'S THE PHONE? THE CORDLESS PHONE?" I needed to call my mother. Surely she would know what to do. In my search and seizure festival, I saw Danielle. She had the phone. I was sure. So I screamed at her too, "GET THE PHONE! GET THE PHONE!" All measure of civility and calm was gone as I frantically looped the house in my desperate search.
Danielle in the meantime has found a cup and is saving the tiny fish. I grabbed Seth and noticed he was soaking wet, but unhurt. Time out. He was placed under arrest and locked into his holding cell: his bedroom. JP, who one might suspect as an accomplice, had still not moved from his frozen stare and Little Einsteins coma.
We started scooping. Gravel. Into the trash bags and trashcan. Towels. We needed lots of towels. Like an 18th century midwife, I ran back through the house and grabbed every absorbent piece of material I could find. We stomped and sopped up the water as best we could. I had since found the phone and called my mother. The call went something like, "Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD! MOM! He knocked it over, the fish tank, the water is all over, I gotta go!" And I quickly hung up. Not getting the answers I had been looking for, the call was ended and the stomping resumed.
The front door opens, its Aaron. I turn my frustration and wrath to him. He immediately responds with, "Well, it probably shouldn't have been set up in here to begin with." Ugly words come flying out of my mouth into his direction. So, I do what any clear thinking and normal woman would: I go shopping.
The End.
*This may not have happened.
I poured the steaming brew into my mug and realized that I hadn't fed the fish. In a few days. Only two survived the original setup process of the ten-gallon river tank that had belonged to one James Curran - my father. The tank was approximately 15 years old, perhaps older. It was split in two with a water fall effect. Water pumped up from one side and emptied on the other. The tank had a small water fall as the water traveled from right to left. Fish could in turn jump from one side to the other. Seth in particular was drawn to the tank. He could often be found elbow deep and holding a handful of gravel, plastic plants and occasionally a fish. One orange gourami met his fate when Seth decided that he should come and play in his room with him. He quietly slipped the fish into his palm and went to play trains with him. Hours later when it became close to lunch time I invited Seth into the kitchen to choose macaroni and cheese or tuna sandwich, I noticed the orange fin popping out through his fingers.
On this particular morning, as I dropped a few flakes into the tank I reflected that since the move, Seth seemed uninterested in the tank. The idea of adding a few fish crossed my mind. It no longer seemed a suicide mission that it surely would have been not six months earlier. Thunder cracked and the sky lit up with lightening streaks*. Odd... the sun had been out just moments ago. I slowly stood, gently closed the cover and twisted the small, brown cover onto the yellow fish food container. I took the five steps leading into the kitchen, placed the food back into the cabinet when I heard it. A loud crash, glass shattering and then the sound of water.
I ran back into the room to find Seth, unscathed but looking guilty as hell, standing and staring at the floor. There it was: the tank and the stand overturned. Glass shattered and ten gallons of water pouring onto the beautiful, bright gold shag rug, circa 1972. An antique carpet soaked and ruined under the gravel, rocks and plants. Two tiny fish leaping for their lives. Alive, yes, but homeless and lost.
Unsure what to grab first, I did what any rational person would do. I ran screaming through house "WHERE'S THE PHONE? THE CORDLESS PHONE?" I needed to call my mother. Surely she would know what to do. In my search and seizure festival, I saw Danielle. She had the phone. I was sure. So I screamed at her too, "GET THE PHONE! GET THE PHONE!" All measure of civility and calm was gone as I frantically looped the house in my desperate search.
Danielle in the meantime has found a cup and is saving the tiny fish. I grabbed Seth and noticed he was soaking wet, but unhurt. Time out. He was placed under arrest and locked into his holding cell: his bedroom. JP, who one might suspect as an accomplice, had still not moved from his frozen stare and Little Einsteins coma.
We started scooping. Gravel. Into the trash bags and trashcan. Towels. We needed lots of towels. Like an 18th century midwife, I ran back through the house and grabbed every absorbent piece of material I could find. We stomped and sopped up the water as best we could. I had since found the phone and called my mother. The call went something like, "Oh my GOD! Oh my GOD! MOM! He knocked it over, the fish tank, the water is all over, I gotta go!" And I quickly hung up. Not getting the answers I had been looking for, the call was ended and the stomping resumed.
The front door opens, its Aaron. I turn my frustration and wrath to him. He immediately responds with, "Well, it probably shouldn't have been set up in here to begin with." Ugly words come flying out of my mouth into his direction. So, I do what any clear thinking and normal woman would: I go shopping.
The End.
*This may not have happened.
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