R.I.P. May 15, 2010

What can I say. The fish is dead.

The Sugababes are no longer a trio, but instead, a double act.

We gave him/her/it a good send-off. A little fishy grave in the garden, right next to his fishy predecessors.

It was actually a relief. The poor thing was obviously not happy and in the end, we were all thankful for the sight of glazed eyes and lifeless gills as another of our pets was taken to the great goldfish bowl in the sky.

Even my son took it in his stride. Not even one tear was shed. We had already discussed how it was far better for the fish to be free from pain and suffering than to carry on in his one-sided state for another day.

So the question is, will the remaining Sugababes commit suicide? Will assisted euthanasia be the order of the day? What can we do to ease their emotional burden?

I have no idea, but I do wish my son would stop harping on about a guinea pig. Even I’m starting to think it could be the way forward.

I don’t believe it! May 12, 2010

One of the fish is dying. I’m sure of it.

He’s stopped swimming around and is sort of treading water on his side.

He’s been doing it for 24 hours. At first I thought he’d got stuck on the weed but no, weed-free he still lolled precariously to the left.

My son is beside himself. There are 3 Sugababes he keeps telling me, not 2!

The weird thing is, it’s as if the fish is taunting me. Whenever I go into the kitchen, there he is looking only slightly more animated than his plastic volcano, but then when he sees me, he perks up. No, I’m not imagining it! He starts to swim around, albeit without a particularly decisive stroke, but definitely swimming.

He’s eating ok. He’s still making the same facial expressions. I’m not sure what other signs there could be and I doubt a vet would be able to add much more to my diagnosis. I’m sure he’s about to snuff it.

It’s really getting beyond a joke. I’m starting to think that maybe a guinea pig isn’t such a bad idea after all!

Fish Update April 30, 2010

Good news to report. The fish made it through the night.

I read somewhere that the biggest trauma for a domestic fish is the move from the shop tank into the new surroundings of a common fish bowl.

Seemingly the new fish are hardy creatures, able to cope with the move to unfamiliar surroundings and adapt to a new environment of pebbles and um, well just pebbles actually.

My son would like them to have some props to swim through as he says it will make their days more interesting. Not wanting to be responsible for bored goldfish, next week I will be searching out a retailer who specialises in small plastic castles and shipwrecks.

And as for their names?

Not great actually. As there are 3 of them, my son thinks they should be called the Sugababes. I’m beginning to think Jedi Knights might have been preferable.

The saga of the fish Part II April 29, 2010

Regular followers will be aware that we don’t have the best of luck with our goldfish. If such a thing as a Goldfish Protection League existed, we’d be banned from owning them.

I really don’t know where we go wrong. I thought goldfish were fool-proof pets. You just sprinkle in the dubious looking flakes every morning, clean out the bowl every few days  and they reward you by swimming round and round pulling funny faces. Or in our case, they reward you by taking on a somewhat glazed expression and floating to the surface on their side.

I will not be beaten. Despite the growing number of goldfish graves in our garden, I’ve taken the plunge again and invested in 3 new fish. I’ve bought them from a different pet shop this time as I’m sure the last place was responsible for the rapid demise of Tom and Jerry.

And surely by going for 3 this time, at least one of them will survive. At least until May. Please.

The fish are, as yet, unnamed as my son is at a friend’s house this afternoon. I’ve tried to think of good triple acts but none really spring to mind. I’ve got a nasty feeling they could end up named after Jedi Knights but I’m trying to stay open-minded.

It’s ten weeks until we fly back to the UK for the summer. Place your bets now.. will any of them make it?

Pets March 21, 2010

We had a fish. Well actually, we had two fish. Goldfish. Very basic, nothing fancy, just ordinary goldfish. They didn’t do much but because we had them, we ticked the ‘pet’ box. And when you have children, it seems you’re obliged to not only provide food, clothing, discipline and pocket-money, but also a pet.

The first fish died whilst we were in the UK at Christmas. Our helper texted to say it had gone to the great goldfish bowl in the sky so we told her to get down to the nearest pet shop and replace it with an identical cousin (how hard could this be after all?).

We returned from our Christmas break to discover that Shrek was alive and well…and twice the size he’d been before we went on holiday. Amazingly, my son put this down to over indulgence during the Christmas season and naturally, we didn’t correct him.

The replacement fish only lasted until the pest control came for their annual visit and were perhaps a little over zealous with the chemicals near Shrek 2′s bowl. We had a burial in the garden. We’re hoping the neighbourhood cats didn’t notice.

We replaced Shrek 2 with two goldfish thinking that at least one of them might go the distance (a month maybe?). We called them Tom and Jerry as even my son realised that Shrek 3 and 4 was perhaps a little unimaginative… Sadly, Jerry barely made it into his new home before he snuffed it. I think he managed three hours.

My Dad is staying with us at the moment and he managed to keep my goldfish Albert alive for years. He recommended pond weed, so this afternoon off we trooped back to the pet shop.  We got a good deal on a particularly pretty variety of weed on the basis that one of the fish that was supposed to swim amongst it, was no longer with us.

It was a hot afternoon and we were all glad to get home. My son, filled with excitement rushed into the kitchen and we placed the weed carefully in the goldfish bowl. Tom didn’t seem all that impressed. In fact, he didn’t even move. He didn’t move when we prodded him, when we waved the weed in his little face or when my Dad gave him a shot of brandy (kept Albert going for ages apparently).  Tom was dead. Cue much sobbing.

As I put my son to bed tonight he told me not to worry as he has had enough of fish as they keep dying. How mature I thought. What a grown up attitude. I should have known there was a catch.

“Can you ask Daddy if we can get a guinea pig?”