Betta than Goldfish
Written By Jennifer King Lindley
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It's hardy, it's handsome, it's possibly the perfect starter fish.
Last year, our 5-year-old son, Ethan, became fascinated with fish. In our comings and goings to preschool, he would pause before the aquarium in the lobby, watching a fat Black Moor hide behind its favorite coral. At a Cape Cod pond, he and his sand shovel hunted minnows with the determination of Captain Ahab. It didn't surprise me, then, when Ethan asked, "Can we get some fish for our house?It seemed a simple request, so Ethan, his older sister, Hannah, and I proceedd to the pet store. We assumed the goldfish was the perfect starter fish: Isn't it a classic pet of childhood? Was one not immortalized as the Cat in the Hat's outraged foil? Isn't there a snack cracker named in its honor? We selected one and excitedly brought it home.
Alas, the excitement was short-lived. The next day I found Ethan peering dubiously into the bowl. He asked, "Is he, uh, sleeping?" Motionless and blanched, the goldfish had indeed gone belly up — or at least belly sideways. "It's not alive anymore," I gave my grim diagnosis, then led our little funeral procession into the bathroom. "Do fish in the wild live such short lives?" Hannah asked me, ceremoniously flushing the toilet handle. (The answer: not usually.) I later learned from a neighbor who had buried her share of goldfish that we would need a full-scale aquarium with filters, pumps, and state-of-the-art life support.
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