There comes a time in every parent’s life when their child comes home from the local carnival and exclaims the four words they dread to hear:

“I won a fish!”

“NOOOOOOO!!!” your internal voice screams.

Thus, we came upon a night a couple of weeks ago when Franny came home with not one, but two, goldfish.  She was sheepishly holding one in each hand, their little orange fins swimming away in the requisite plastic bags carnival goldfish are prone to be delivered in.

“I tried to give one to Olivia but she didn’t want it.”

“What about the other girls?  Did you ask Bryn? Susie?  Did you offer it to Sadie? Surely one of them wanted a new fish!”

“Nope. No one wanted one.”

Impossible. What 11-year-old girl doesn’t want a fish?  What seemed more likely was that their parents had been more clear about carnival rules than I had been:  1) Answer your phone when I text you. 2) The $20 I gave you is for lunch. Do not spend $5 on ice cream, $6 on a frappuccino, and $6 on games where you might possibly win a fish. 3) DON’T BRING HOME ANY FISH.

Not that I have any experience with that exact scenario.

“What should I name them?” she said.

“You are not allowed to name them until tomorrow. They need to prove they can stay alive for 24 hours before they get a name.”

Side Note:

My only experience with carnival fish happened several years ago when Franny was a toddler.  We won a goldfish at the local fest and placed it in a small fishbowl in her bedroom.  The next morning I awoke wondering where the awful stench in my house was coming from. After searching around I traced it back to the fish. How could such a small thing create such a stink? I cleaned the fishbowl that was now murky and cloudy.  Within hours the house had a foul odor again.   I cleaned the tank AGAIN.  It didn’t work. On day three I did nothing and let the fish die in its own filth.

Back to Tim and Alfred.  Oh, yes, they lived 24 hours.

We pulled out the old fish bowl, let the water adjust to room temperature and put them in their new home.   They seemed happy and vibrant, and on day two when I saw they were still alive, I decided to invest in fish food.

Unfortunately, it was time to clean the tank already.  I told Franny she was getting a tutorial, as cleaning a fish bowl every two days was not my idea of summer fun.  We placed both the fish in the same Solo cup and set it on the bathroom counter while we cleaned the bowl.  All we needed to do now was wait again for the water temps to adjust to each other. (Believe me, this part is important.  If you place the fish back in the bowl too soon and the water is colder or warmer than they are used to, they will die. Trust me.)

At this point, Ted was home, so things were done with more attention to sanitation than they normally would be. He was following me around making sure I didn’t use one of our drinking glasses, insisting I use a fish net, spraying down every surface I touched, and warning me not to put the two fish in the same Solo cup.  Ted’s concern about the tight quarters seemed a bit dramatic.

“It will be fine,” I said as I walked away.

An hour later I went to check on the water.  AN HOUR LATER.

Oh, the water was room temperature all right. Also, Timmy was on the floor next to the toilet.

Holy Hell.  “AHHHHH!!!!” I screamed.

I have no idea how long he was down there.  Or how he got there.  Somewhere between right after I left the bathroom and ONE HOUR.  So many questions flooded my brain. Was he alive?  Was he breathing? Do fish breathe? Did Alfred push him out?  Did he jump to his death?  Was he trying to get to the toilet?  DO all drains lead to the ocean??

In a panic, I scooped him up with my fingers and threw him back into the fishbowl. We watched. And we watched.  He floated lifelessly on his side. And then…and then…his mouth started moving.  HE WAS ALIVE!!

Except was he? He was opening his mouth and closing it, but he wasn’t exactly swimming.  He was kind of just floating.  We waited.  I prodded him with my finger.  He lurched and then went back to floating on his side.   Oh no…was this going to be a repeat of when a certain toddler dropped our guinea pig years ago?  First shock, and then a slow, theatrical death involving spasms and twitches?

After a few minutes, he began to swim slowly, but still on his side, only using one fin. Maybe he just had a broken fin. An image of Nemo popped into my head.  Could a fish live by using just one fin and only swimming diagonally?  I prodded him again. He moved to the side of the bowl and started rotating the way an alligator would if he was trying to kill his prey, his nose in the corner spinning in circles.  He’d gone mad.  I could only hope he would be able to maintain a healthy weight with the constant spinning while eating for the rest of his life.

By morning he was normal again. Although I can’t say Ted was. He insisted from then on we put them in separate cups while we cleaned the bowl.  He felt certain Alfred pushed Timmy out due to cramped space. I insisted we also put the dog away during the cleaning process.  I could not guarantee that Athena was not, in fact, a pescatarian and wondered if maybe we just got lucky the first time.

Five days later, in a surprising turn of events, Alfred died. (It appeared to be of natural causes with no foul play suspected.  Except for the fact that it happened while Ted was the only one home. Still, the kids and I made the executive decision to close the case.)  The day after that, we found Timmy laying on the bottom of the bowl.  It was obvious he died of a broken heart.

I wish I could have come up with a heartfelt send-off for them, but quite frankly, I didn’t have much to work with.

RIP Alfred and Timmy. We hardly knew ya.