The day before we were flying back East for the holidays, Lala and I were scrambling to pack and cover all the domestic bases needed for us to get away. Luckily we don't believe in indoor plants or, I should say, we don't believe in the merciless killing of indoor plants by actually owning any. We don't have any pets that need to be kenneled either. What we do own is a very uninteresting Betta fish named Turquoise given to us by another family who feels we are depriving our daughter by not surrounding her with a flock of beasts that still run wild somewhere on the globe. I think the fishy gift was presented to us as a) a training pet for a future canine b) another name for London to mispronounce and c) a joke on me since I refuse to hail animals by anything other than their common species name. Somehow calling a Pomeranian "Gershwin" feels as ridiculous as asking for "Biggie" fries at Wendy's. I know pets make great companions, yet I can't help but feel that dragging critters around on a choke collar or jamming them inside a bowl or cage is just a bestial form of slavery.
Luckily, we have a friend who agreed to fishsit Turquoise while we were away, which means dropping three pellets in the morning and the same number at night and praying each day that the catatonic blue ribbon does not float to the top. I gathered up all the mini-Jacques Cousteau gear in case an emergency water evacuation was necessary and had everyone bid farewell to our most mute and colorful family member. Poppy had quite a few things to say to a fish that lives in isolation while London threw out a casual "Bye, Turkboys!" on his way to unsuccessfully attempt to turn a robot into a plane.
The tank has a removable top with a little winged plastic piece the size of a chapstick that props the glass ceiling open to allow for air but not escape like in that creepy dentist's office scene in
Finding Nemo
. Our neighborhood, like others in Santa Fe who agree that running over kids is generally bad manners, is laden with speed humps. I lost about half of the tank's water over the first sleeping policeman and, even when I slowed down to a pace usually reserved for overmedicated senior citizens, I still sloshed the algal juice. Even though I was moving so sluggardly, it was still difficult driving. I had to keep switching my gaze from the humpty hump road to the tiny tsunami on my floorboard to my rearview, which had recently filled with cars wanting to race to the mall before Hot Topic sold out of Linkin Park knit cadet hats. There is no universal gesture for "I have my daughter's Siamese fighting fish on my floor." I tried to mime my predicament but I think the sight of my top teeth scraping over my bottom lip to create the "f" sound in fish reminded my fellow drivers of another f-word that is not usually associated with water-filled tanks. Well, I guess it could but the people in the unsexy cars behind me didn't seem that ambitious or creative.
I'm self-aware enough to realize when I'm doing something really stupid but that doesn't mean I necessarily stop doing it. I kept gesturing to the unseen fish when the little plastic prop-open thingy fell into the tank, slamming the lid shut. Bettas are used to living in rice paddies in low oxygen but for some reason I thought Turquoise would die before I could blame it on the fishsitter, so I pulled over and ducked down to pry open the glass and snatch the wedge without grabbing the Turqster. When I finished my task, I whipped my hand wildly, trying to fling the fishpissy water off my fingers. When that didn't work, I repeatedly wiped it on the passenger seat, swearing the whole time. That's when I saw the people rubbernecking as they passed by in their cars. Behind them were more gawkers in a parking lot staring at a guy who had driven slowly and erratically, pulled over, bent over, and then tried to frantically rub some mystery liquid off his hands.
Turquoise, as always, had no comment.
The column "Daddy Needs A Drink" runs the first Wednesday of every month in SFR. Rob Wilder's book of the same title publishes in April. Read more about it at www.daddyneedsadrink.com.
