Moving: Fishy Mama

During my time in Waterloo I met some very interesting and wonderful people. Some of them taught me a thing or two about life, and others taught me a thing or two about love, and some taught me a thing or two about fish, and for this I am truly grateful.

I had wanted a pet ever since I moved away from home and away from my three furry feline friends. Life without Fred, Toby and Nell was hard. Sure, I didn’t have the responsibility or cost of cat food, vet bills and flee medicine, but I missed having a pet. Come to think of it, I did have one rather snarley roommate who ate me out of house and home, demanded constant attention and required medical treatments for a year, but she was no where near as sweet and pleasant as a cat. Heck, I think a wild boar or a hyena would make a better roommate. I’d take an ex-con even. I’m sure Bubba the Hell’s Angel’s member would blush at some of the things that came out of this particular roommate’s mouth.

I digress. I decided to investigate appropriate pets for an apartment dweller. A dog was automatically out. Too much walking and feeding and care required. Hey, I love animal, but I was not prepared for the work needed to care for a dog. I considered a cat; however I would never be able to take a vacation. Who would look after Little Fluffy when I pick up and leave for Christmas vacation? I could not bring Fluffy with me, as the rather large and nasty Toby (a beautiful but slightly disturbed Tortoiseshell cat who resides at my parent’s house) would become agitated at the visitor. This would lead to nothing positive.

A fish seemed about the only option, and Lord Stanley Axl III, the Heart Break Fish took up residence in a large bowl on my dining room shelving unit. He seemed happy enough, until he died. I was heartbroken. Since I brought Stan home with me, my interest in Fish grew. I had accumulated a proper fish tank, filter, automatic feeder, some fake plants, one live plant, three minnows and a large snail, who was dubbed “Dirty Ho”. (For those of you familiar with the dancehall artist Mr. Vegas, this name should remind you of a song. Yes, yes, I know the song is “She’s a Ho”, but that didn’t sound much like a name.) I also had some of Dirty Ho’s offspring, the Ho Ho’s. Not only did I miss Stan terribly, but I had 5 gallons of water which looked virtually empty. Dirty Ho would occasionally fling herself off of the tank wall and sail slowly to the bottom of the tank, but this was not enough to replace the beautiful Stan’s swimming. I needed some more fish!

This is where my fishy friend comes in. She helped me pick out quite a few pretty little fish and frogs for my tank. I loved them all. They swam, played, managed to kill Dirty Ho (that was another sad day – not to mention a very smelly experience) and gave birth.

Yes, my fish multiplied monthly. There was so much fish love going on that I needed a bigger tank. Hello shopping trip! The new 20 gallon tank was beautiful. Over a hundred bucks later I had two frogs, 5 new plants, a massive amount of gravel, some new Platies (ok, so the 20 gallon was too big. I needed to fill it up with more fish), filters, food, and Boober.

I love Boober. He is a very pretty Pleco. Some people find him ugly. My friend Kurt jokes that Boober would be best ‘put to use’ as an item on the dinner menu.

I had become attached to Boober, Hugh, Dixie, Ol’ Blindy (she’s blind in one eye), Vegas, Aero, Delilah, Sampson, Goodie, Sara II, Heffner, and Callie1 through 5. One of the major sources of stress associated with my move to Toronto was concerning my fish. How was I to move them? They are living creatures, and the thought of ripping them from their homes and plopping them in buckets was bone chilling. I drafted up a master “Fish Transportation and De-Stressing Plan”.

On moving day I awoke at 6am. I had two large plastic crates each holding four one-gallon ice cream tubs. I carefully removed about ½ of the water in the fish tank and dumped it down the drain. This was a brutal experience. Water is HEAVY. Ten gallons of water is about 100 lbs. It took me ten trips to finish the task. I was soaking, exhausted (I was running during this time, as to minimize the “stress” my fish experienced – not to mention it was 6am!!!).

Next, I scooped up some fish, and put them in one of the ice cream tubs. This was difficult, as no fish willingly swam into the net. “Oh look, a net. Let’s get captured!” Ya right. It was more like: “Oh look, fishy mama has a net. The last time that net came out she took Dirty Ho. We never saw that snail again. I’m going to hide behind the plant.”

After about 45 minutes of chasing fish around the tank, I had finished Phase II of the master plan. Boober had his own tub, as did the frogs. The rest of the fish were spread out in the remaining tubs, complete with plants and some food. The big plastic crates sat in my bathtub.

I drained the remaining water, and collected the gravel in a plastic bag. Phase III complete. I then disassembled the filter and light and packaged the tank into a cardboard box. Phase IV complete. Now comes the waiting. I could do nothing until the movers came. They better be on time. I figure my fish would be ok in their new homes for a few hours. It was 8:00 in the morning, and my fish needed to be back in the big fish tank by 1Pm. We could do it. Hang in there babies, it will all be over soon.

The movers didn’t even show up until 10:30AM (just two hours late, no big deal….SHEESH). By the time everything was packed up, it was after noon. I loaded the plastic fish crates into the car, and held my little froggy babies on my lap as my mother drove me and my fish family to the new apartment (Phase V). I talked to them the entire trip. I think I began to scare my mother. Every time she hit a bump, I glared. Every time she braked a little too fast, I scowled. I’m sure my fish could care less, but I was worried!!!

When we arrived at the Toronto apartment, I put the fish crates in the bathroom (Phase VI). I wished them well, and promised it would all be over soon.

By 6:00 at night everything was unloaded. As you know there were a few snafus involved in the moving process. This took some time to sort out. Meanwhile, my babies were sitting in the bathtub. I would check on them occasionally. They SEEMED fine, but I just didn’t know how deem the mental and emotional damage went (I am being VERY sarcastic here.)

So, at 6PM I finally got around to assembling my brand new fish stand (Phase VII). It was a proper stand (thanks mommy!). The designers obviously took lessons from Ikea designers, and decided to leave out the instructions. All I had was the Spanish version. Seeing as I practically failed Spanish in University, I began to laugh. This was going to be fun.

It was about 10 at night when I finished the stand assembly. I had wood and screws and hammers and nails all over the floor. I THINK the stand was finished. I had some left over screws and nails, which is never a good sign. I was imagining the stand cracking and the tank smashing to the floor, my babies spilling out everywhere. Then those damn pigeons would fly in and eat the little fish bodies flopping on the drenched floor. (YES, I know pigeons don’t kill and eat live animals…but these ones at my apartment are devil birds, and they would do it simply to annoy me.)

I hurriedly filled the tank with water, treated it for chlorine (Phase VIII), and went to get the fish. I opened up the lid on the first tub, and Sara II jumps out. I shrieked. I think I even said some profane words. I couldn’t see where she went. I moved all the tubs and panicked. Where did my Sara II go? I think I even started calling her name.

Mom ran in and I yelled at her not to move. “STOP. If Sara is on the floor, you might step on her. Look for her. COME ON Look for my fish!” I think I cried.

But there she was. In the bottom of the plastic crate, flopping around in a few millimeters of water. I picked her up, cupped her in my hands, and ran to the fish tank in the living room. She splashed into the water, and looked at me….glared at me actually. She said: “What the heck was that? You dumb woman. Don’t you ever do that to me again. And by the way, stop shrieking. I have been in that dang tub for and entire day. I wanted to stretch my fins. I SAID stop freaking out”.

Ok, she didn’t say that. But she was thinking it, I know she was.

The other fish didn’t give me any trouble. Boober kind of attacked the frogs, but they never really got along. Phase IX was complete. My babies survived, and I went to bed.

I never want to have children. If I got that worked up over my fish, my poor human children are doomed.