As I settled into my new-found freedom in my expensive co-op apartment in Mt. Kisco, New York, I suddenly realized that in my quest for solitude and oneness with Moi, I was a tad bit lonely. While I had no desire to surrender my marital status at that point in time, I came up with the next logical conclusion: I needed a pet.
Well, after pouring through the by-laws of my Co-op contract, I discovered I was S.O.L. on obtaining a puppy. I am not, have never been and never will be a cat person…that being the only allowable, four-legged creature listed in the paperwork. I am, have always been and will always be a pig person and thought that I had hit pay-dirt with my brilliant idea:
While I truly didn’t believe that the Board of Directors would approve my dream purchase of a
Vietnamese Pot Belly Pig,
I concocted a story of adopting the fattest, most globular-looking cat in creation…having paid a seamstress to whip up a rotund cat costume for my beloved P.B. piggy. 
If anyone got too close to piggy and heard her grunt, I would simply explain that ‘kitty’ had a raging sinus condition that just won’t clear up. The other option was to come clean with the Board, provide research on how small they actually can stay and sign a contract that if piggy gets beyond a certain amount of pounds, I willingly agree to host the biggest f’ing hoe-down and pig roast anyone in Westchester County ever laid witness to. 
Vietnamese Pot Belly Pig,
I concocted a story of adopting the fattest, most globular-looking cat in creation…having paid a seamstress to whip up a rotund cat costume for my beloved P.B. piggy. 
Ok, ok...so these were the stupid-ass fantasies
that I whipped up at night, all by my lonesome.
This plan, just wouldn’t pan and then what the hell do I do with an uninhabitable P.B. pig from the Viet Cong?? 
I needed a new breed of roommate.
One afternoon after one of my many one o’clock ventures
to my favorite Italian haunt on 58th Street, I came out feeling a tiny bit ‘light-headed.’ As I made my way back to the office, I happened to pass a tiny pet store. “Eureka!,” exclaimed I. “I shall pop in and see what the offerings are for a lonely cosmetics queen!” I teetered around a bit on my high-heeled pumps, 
invigorated by the nice Chianti I had just consumed.
I looked into cages and I looked up at perches.
I tried to quickly envision each little creature in my one-bedroom abode and, just as quickly,
x’d them out.
As I was walking out of the store, I came upon a tank. Inside this tank were eight million of the cutest little fish, all different in
appearance, 
but swimming and playing so sweetly in and out of a drunken, plastic skeleton and pirate’s treasure chest.
They looked so content!
I wished I had a little red wagon,
as I would have taken the whole kit and caboodle, right then and there. Instead, in my red-wine intoxication, I bought the aforementioned kit, pirate’s booty and all. It was like leaving your wife in the hospital with the baby; you make sure the nursery is set up, go get the car seat and then you come back for the kid. I had the materials delivered to my office and went home with it, that night. Back at home that night, I set about, setting up life for my new little swimmers, getting everything perfectly acclimated for their arrival. I placed a picture of a friend snorkeling in Mexico, which I blew up 500% & taped to the back of the tank, just for that feeling of oceanic authenticity.
The next day, I went back to the store and took home two new boys.
I once again came out of
Felidia and headed over to the pet store. The owner had reviewed with me, how the survival of these fish were GUARANTEED. Wow. Guaranteed? How do you do that?
You barely could get that with a house-plant.
He told me and I quote: “Anything happens to these fish, bring them back.” Wait. What? If they pass away, I bring them back? You want the dead fish back? Yup, that’s what he said. Ok. I could live with that. Although visions of transporting the deceased fish from Westchester to Manhattan, wrapped in foil in my giant pocketbook had me shuttering at my probable bad luck. What if I got mugged? I can’t get a credit on dead fish that were stolen with my wallet. These fish were not cheap, in case you’re wondering. I had to consider all factors in the scenario and the more-than-likely possible outcomes.
invigorated by the nice Chianti I had just consumed. I looked into cages and I looked up at perches.
I tried to quickly envision each little creature in my one-bedroom abode and, just as quickly,
x’d them out. As I was walking out of the store, I came upon a tank. Inside this tank were eight million of the cutest little fish, all different in
appearance, but swimming and playing so sweetly in and out of a drunken, plastic skeleton and pirate’s treasure chest.
They looked so content! I wished I had a little red wagon,
as I would have taken the whole kit and caboodle, right then and there. Instead, in my red-wine intoxication, I bought the aforementioned kit, pirate’s booty and all. It was like leaving your wife in the hospital with the baby; you make sure the nursery is set up, go get the car seat and then you come back for the kid. I had the materials delivered to my office and went home with it, that night. Back at home that night, I set about, setting up life for my new little swimmers, getting everything perfectly acclimated for their arrival. I placed a picture of a friend snorkeling in Mexico, which I blew up 500% & taped to the back of the tank, just for that feeling of oceanic authenticity.
 |
The next day, I went back to the store and took home two new boys.
I once again came out of
Felidia and headed over to the pet store. The owner had reviewed with me, how the survival of these fish were GUARANTEED. Wow. Guaranteed? How do you do that? He told me and I quote: “Anything happens to these fish, bring them back.” Wait. What? If they pass away, I bring them back? You want the dead fish back? Yup, that’s what he said. Ok. I could live with that. Although visions of transporting the deceased fish from Westchester to Manhattan, wrapped in foil in my giant pocketbook had me shuttering at my probable bad luck. What if I got mugged? I can’t get a credit on dead fish that were stolen with my wallet. These fish were not cheap, in case you’re wondering. I had to consider all factors in the scenario and the more-than-likely possible outcomes.So looking like I had just come across a carnival on the Upper East side of Manhattan,
I am giddy and stumbling back to my office in three-inch heels, carrying a plastic bag, by the neck, filled with water and marine life.
The owner was good enough to give me a black outer-bag, so that my new additions wouldn’t feel gawked at, on the walk to Third Avenue. I had thought of damn-near everything. Damn-near. When I got back to the office, I had a few hours to kill before quitting time and smack in the middle of a meeting, a colleague pointed out that the plastic delivery bag for Surf Boy I and Surf Boy II had developed a eensy pinhole at the bottom-most corner of the bag and was shooting water all over my window-seat, looking much like my brother squirting water at me through the space in his front teeth, when he was 12. As I hadn’t planned for this turn-of-events, I was scrambling through the office, looking for an instantaneous solution, of how to curtail the impending waterfall, along with tackling the subsequent 50-minute, door-to-door ride home on the Metro North train. My boss, after laughing his ass off at my stupidity and shortsightedness, suggested that I grab the empty orange-handled decaf pot from the coffee area. Genius! Why didn’t I think of that??
He tells me, “Look, it’s not quite 5:30pm yet, but I suggest you end your meeting and haul ass to Grand Central and get these little buggers home, before you have a disaster on your hands.” I suppose that’s why he was the boss. I quickly ripped out of my high-heels, threw on
my high-tops and made a bee-line for
G.C. Terminal.
I am giddy and stumbling back to my office in three-inch heels, carrying a plastic bag, by the neck, filled with water and marine life.
The owner was good enough to give me a black outer-bag, so that my new additions wouldn’t feel gawked at, on the walk to Third Avenue. I had thought of damn-near everything. Damn-near. When I got back to the office, I had a few hours to kill before quitting time and smack in the middle of a meeting, a colleague pointed out that the plastic delivery bag for Surf Boy I and Surf Boy II had developed a eensy pinhole at the bottom-most corner of the bag and was shooting water all over my window-seat, looking much like my brother squirting water at me through the space in his front teeth, when he was 12. As I hadn’t planned for this turn-of-events, I was scrambling through the office, looking for an instantaneous solution, of how to curtail the impending waterfall, along with tackling the subsequent 50-minute, door-to-door ride home on the Metro North train. My boss, after laughing his ass off at my stupidity and shortsightedness, suggested that I grab the empty orange-handled decaf pot from the coffee area. Genius! Why didn’t I think of that??
He tells me, “Look, it’s not quite 5:30pm yet, but I suggest you end your meeting and haul ass to Grand Central and get these little buggers home, before you have a disaster on your hands.” I suppose that’s why he was the boss. I quickly ripped out of my high-heels, threw on my high-tops and made a bee-line for
G.C. Terminal.
I have my normal, every-day Samsonite-sized
pocketbook AND leather
Contestant Bag
over one shoulder;
In my hot little hands: A freaking, leakin' bag of fish in the left hand… on top, and an orange-handled decaf coffee pot in my right, on the bottom.
so they wouldn’t know their final destination.
After my run-walk-darting all the way, I board the train and take my seat 
next to a gentleman who is already working on what must have been the first generation of laptops, ever available.
He looked like he had a small movie-theatre screen in his lap
and when he saw the contents of my hands, looked very nervous and tried to shield his electronic toy with his entire body.
I had goofy visions of ‘I Love Lucy’,
when she pulled the emergency brake on the train,
and seeing Surf Boy I & II, go airborne across the length of the car.
Mr. Legal finally had enough sweating and shut his laptop operation down and tucked it safely away. I sheepishly apologized for being so short-sighted in my pet acquisition planning. He turned out to be very sweet and actually held the boys and their makeshift-coffee pot-holding tank, while I put my enormous luggage
back on my shoulder, to prepare for my stop, which was coming up next.
As I searched for another round of cabs at the station, to take me my $5.00 & thirty second ride, I was again hoofing it. I caught a break when I found a neighbor at the main door, with a key already in place. He pitied the shit out of me, when he saw my predicament and put my key
into my apartment door and got me safely inside with my new tenants. Now you have to believe me. The split-second I got them in, that f’ing plastic bag split open, just as I got it over the fish tank. I couldn’t believe it!
I was drenched in sweat,
but my white-knuckled ride to Westchester, actually worked out.
next to a gentleman who is already working on what must have been the first generation of laptops, ever available.
He looked like he had a small movie-theatre screen in his lap
and when he saw the contents of my hands, looked very nervous and tried to shield his electronic toy with his entire body. I had goofy visions of ‘I Love Lucy’,
when she pulled the emergency brake on the train,
and seeing Surf Boy I & II, go airborne across the length of the car.
Mr. Legal finally had enough sweating and shut his laptop operation down and tucked it safely away. I sheepishly apologized for being so short-sighted in my pet acquisition planning. He turned out to be very sweet and actually held the boys and their makeshift-coffee pot-holding tank, while I put my enormous luggage
back on my shoulder, to prepare for my stop, which was coming up next.
I was drenched in sweat,
but my white-knuckled ride to Westchester, actually worked out.
I set about getting S.B. 1
properly slipped into their life in the suburbs. I toiled straight through the night,
making sure everything was perfectly in place.
My mind wandered back to a day in the 70's, when I went fishing at our house in Hortonville, New York. After spending the day at the stream, I came home with a fish. I rode home on my bicycle, with my fishing rod, sticking out of the stupid flowered basket on the front, with the stupid fish, still attached to the hook. I had practically disemboweled the poor little bastard, trying to get the hook out of his face. When I couldn't do it, I brought it home and my father did the dirty deed. He made a move toward the bathroom, with my fish in his hand and I was aghast! "No, Daddy!! I want to keep him." After trying to do a near brain-ectomy on him, I placed him in a Chase & Sanborn coffee can, but not before bestowing a name on him & wishing him a good night. In the morning, when I jumped out of bed, to greet my new pet, I was flabbergasted when I found him,
floating belly up.
I was more than a little crushed, that he didn't survive...
I felt like he didn't really give it all he had....
I decided in my recently gained, ultimate wisdom that I needed to stay local for any further fish purchases. I just didn’t have it in me, to repeat stupidity. After work that evening, I drove myself to White Plains and
went to the pet store in the Galleria Mall.
Twenty minutes, back home in a car. Win-win.
went to the pet store in the Galleria Mall.
In making my next fish selections, I failed to ask for,
and the genius seventeen-year-old expert failed to provide, any information about what the hell I just bought.
I went on looks alone. Didn’t Mommy always tell you about that book-judging-cover-thingy? I never learn.
An hour later, I’m back home, slitting open another plastic bag and sliding three more fish into the tank. To the chagrin of S.B. 1 & 2, I added: Fish Number 3, Number 4 and 5. I swore that I saw S.B. 1 & 2 roll their eyes at me, in protest of my disloyalty to them.
because instead of keeping his business to the other small fish and the glass of the tank, he’s egging on Fish #3, hereafter to be known as ‘Big Boy.’
to separate him..like I attended fish obedience classes or something. After hours of this nonsense, I packed it in..I finally peered down into the tank,
stuck my middle finger at him
and said, “F-you. I tried to save you…if you get eaten, you asked for it,” and went to bed.
The next morning, as I’m running out the door….I stopped by the tank for a peek. I’m counting the fish… One, Two, oh, there’s the third…Yup, the fourth is in the skeleton’s mouth….uh, where’s the fifth one???
I looked everywhere: In the cave, behind the skeleton. Nothing…Oh my God, Big Boy ate him! That was until I finally realized it’s Big Boy that’s actually missing. 
My fish was abducted while I slept!
What happened? I suddenly look down and see Big Boy, splattered on my beautiful, pristine white Italian-marble-tiled floor. I literally gasped out loud.
WTF? Was he depressed?
I scratched my head, but I was already in jeopardy of missing my train, if I didn’t haul it the hell out of there. I couldn’t leave the fish on the floor, so I did the only logical thing I could come up with: I spatula’d him up, wrapped him in Reynold’s aluminum foil
and put his dead fish ass in a deep freeze, as far from my Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, as I could manage. 
My fish was abducted while I slept!
What happened? I suddenly look down and see Big Boy, splattered on my beautiful, pristine white Italian-marble-tiled floor. I literally gasped out loud.
WTF? Was he depressed?
I scratched my head, but I was already in jeopardy of missing my train, if I didn’t haul it the hell out of there. I couldn’t leave the fish on the floor, so I did the only logical thing I could come up with: I spatula’d him up, wrapped him in Reynold’s aluminum foil
and put his dead fish ass in a deep freeze, as far from my Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, as I could manage. The next night, as I drove back to the Mall, I felt terribly guilty about the death of Big Boy. Oh, why hadn’t I placed a piece of carpeting under the tank stand???? Maybe he would have survived, suffering at the most from a wicked case of rug burn...
As I approached the service desk in the pet store, I presented my Gorton’s frozen fish-stick
and politely demanded a refund, mostly out of sheer principle, for not informing me that my deceased fish was once a circus performer.
I bought a cactus
with the cash, turned the aquarium…into a terrarium and called it a day.
As I approached the service desk in the pet store, I presented my Gorton’s frozen fish-stick
and politely demanded a refund, mostly out of sheer principle, for not informing me that my deceased fish was once a circus performer.
I bought a cactus
with the cash, turned the aquarium…into a terrarium and called it a day. ~SusiTheJ~
Kissing Gouramis are also popular with aquarists for the fish's peculiar "kissing" behavior of other fish, plants, and other objects. Kissers of both sexes will often spar by meeting mouths and pushing each other through the water. Kissing Gouramis are territorial, some are tolerant towards fish of similar size, but others will bully, chase and torment causing significant stress on tank mates. Male kissers will occasionally challenge each other; however, the "kissing" itself is never fatal, but the constant bullying can stress the other fish to death....
Holy Shit! This proves that the constant, homosexual advances of Surf Boy I caused Big Boy to jump to his death!!!! Uuuuugggggghhhhhhh! I adopted a deviant, killer fish!!
I never imagined such ugly gang activity in my home, while I slept….
No shit, Sherlock! Thanks for nothing. Now I have a sexually-bullied, squooshed fish, with a sub-dural hematoma and I’m flushing his murderers.
P.S. I have absolutely no memory of what kind of fish, the other two inhabitants were...I'm too f'ing old to remember, that far back.
