If you don’t know by now, I have a severe phobia of fish. I don’t know where it came from or why, but the mere thought of fish gives me stomach cramps. I can’t fathom why people would eat fish or, goddammit, keep them as pets.
Logically, this fear would lead me where it did today, the fish aisle of the pet store.
When we moved into the house last year, there were two large coy in the fish pond. Ethan loved them, named them Meryl and Agnes, and regularly went outside to wax poetic at their little fish heads. Later that summer, I grew distressed at the amount of algae growing in the pond. Though I hate the fish, they were now my responsibility and I had to take care of them. My illogic led me to buying two small sucker fish to clear the pond (which they did rather well) and named them Frank and Beans.
I couldn’t stand the thought of them living in the corner of my yard, swimming, blowing bubbles, pooping, doing whatever it is that fish do. I regularly found myself in the backyard, standing as far away from the pond as possible on my tiptoes to check and see if they were still there. Neither Meryl and Agnes nor Frank and Beans flew out of the pond to shank me with their razor-tipped gills. I eventually made peace. I’d take care of them as long as I never had to see them. It was a good deal.
Midautumn, because the pond does not overwinter, Agnes and Meryl were rescued and taken to a fish tank somewhere in the annals of the university biology department. Frank and Beans, alas, were never seen again.
As the weather got warm and I began to clean the yard of leaves and brush, Ethan began to ask whether we would be getting more fish for the pond. He asked and asked and asked, and today of all days is the day I relented. Thus I found myself in the aisle of the pet store dedicated to my own personal hell, rows of tanks and hundreds, maybe thousands, of fish.
A friend came along. He and Ethan were in charge of choosing, retreiving, and carrying the fish. I was not to look at them or hold the bag. They were not to get the kind of goldfish with the squishy brain heads. That would be completely out of line.
I drove home with a headache and stomach cramps. I saw them in my periphery, wiggling their little golden fish asses, mocking my fear. Ethan named the new fish.
I arranged the new plants for the pond before releasing the new fish, all the while thinking of the ghosts of little Frank and Beans. Would they haunt the pond? My dreams? Something touched my hand. I screamed, Ethan jumped, I danced around and tried not to throw up.
Meet the culprit, Aguaman. Aguaman (not Aquaman, Ethan insisted, that one’s already taken) had apparently dropped into the pond and had no way to get out. We arranged some rocks in the pond so he could get himself in and out as necessary. He wasn’t so pleased with our charity. He blinked several times, jumped out of the pond and promptly buried himself under a pile of ginko leaves.
So that feat was over. Now for the fish. Frank II, Beans II, and Chicken (don’t ask) were released without much fanfare. Ethan was thrilled. I kneeled at the edge of the pond threatening to vomit. The worst part is that, even though I specified that this was absolutely WRONG and I WILL NOT HAVE THESE THINGS ON MY PROPERTY, Frank II has a squishy brain head.
I watched them for awhile to see if they were evil attack fish, and they weren’t. It was okay. I was conquering some fears. Things were good. My friend and Ethan went inside for some Lego action as I glowed with positive ichythokarma. I began to clear some brush from around the pond when a cardinal swooped down and nearly took off my head. Though startled, I am used to it. The birds in the yard don’t care so much about human activity and stay curiously nearby, and so I bent back down and grabbed what I thought was a dead floral chute.
It wasn’t. It was a mouse skeleton. A full and complete mouse skeleton, white and bare except for a tuft of brown fur stuck to the ribs. And I was holding onto THE SKULL!
You know what? I’m not going outside for awhile. That fish pond can kiss my ass.