What's with this post's title, you ask? Well, a baby fish is called a fry, we've found ourselves with a fish, and I'm about to explain the throw out part.
He was a wedding favor. Really. We walk into the reception, there's a fish bowl on the table, and the other people at the table say "You get to take the fish home, and we don't want him." So we walk out with a fish and some starter fish food.
I figured he'd be dead by morning. Not due to malevolence, that's just what's happened with other fish that have had the misfortune to enter our home.
I started in immediately with jokes related to fish death. Example: On the way home, Emmett named the fish "Jo Momma" (in honor of Jo, the bride, our neighbor), and I suggested adding on references to fish preparation and untimely demise, namely (pun intended) the full name of "Jo Momma Sauté Doomed." Has a nice ring to it.
But lo! Jo! That was a month ago, and he (maybe she) is still alive! I'm told the little bugger is a Betta fish, which are hardy enough to survive temperatures that dip below 60 degrees overnight because that's the temperature we like it in the winter and we really don't care if Jo likes it or not.
Emmett feeds Jo; I change his water every morning. I got a little net-on-a-handle at Wal-Mart to make Jo easier to catch at changing time, but he's getting more elusive. Some mornings I give up on poking around after him and simply tilt water out of the bowl and net Jo Mama as he slides out. I have to make sure the sink is empty and the plug is in the drain because twice now, Jo Mama has missed the net and fallen into the sink.
For which instances, I must say to myself: Keith, Ya Goof!
P.S. I also feel like saying that for ending up with a fish in the first place, but as you see, we just didn't see this swimming our way.
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