Dad's gi-hugant silver dollar fish died on Wednesday night. That guy's been in his tank since the beginning, so it was at least a year old, maybe older.
I can't say I ever thought of fish really having a personality, but this guy was pretty amusing. As far as fish go. And he was big, probably about the size of a closed fist.
When we were younger, we had small tanks, and when one died Em liked to have a little moment of silence as we sent our little fishy friend off to the giant fishbowl in the sky.
Okay, y'all aren't six. We flush them down the toilet, and I don't really want to think about where they go from there.
So remember how big I said this fish was?
Make a fist-- go ahead. Yep, that's a big fish.
Dad flushes him down the toilet.
I heard him flush it twice. Then a few minutes later as I was walking past the bathroom, he told me to flush the toilet again. I should have but two and two together and realized then that he wasn't entirely confident our fishy friend was... er... all the way down.
Later on that evening, I flushed the toilet. And the water didn't go all the way down.
*sigh*
So I got the plunger. Dad came and was looking over my shoulder. I should have just let him do it. I was figuring a couple good plunges would be enough to..... send him the rest of the way down.
Nope.
It came back.
Scared the crap out of me.
I think I may have shrieked and bolted out of the bathroom and ran out into the kitchen.
I could hear my father cackling as he got a plastic bag and fished Mr. Fish out of the toilet.
And cackling all the way out the door as he took Mr. Silver Dollar outside.
And laughing all the way back upstairs.
The moral of my little story? If your fish is as big as your fist...... it's not going to fit down the toilet.
No comments:
Post a Comment