Last week I was in charge of my nephew’s fish: Bubbles and Goldie. My sister and her family went out of town to visit colleges and the only living creatures they own are two goldfish; my sisters first attempt to introduce pets into her household. Now I have chickens, guinea fowl, and a rabbit of my own, so I am not new to this whole animal watching duty, but these fish were different. If they died under my care, how would their family ever recover? I know what you’re thinking; relax Mel, they’re just goldfish. You can get more. Believe me, I looked into it. As a back-up plan I checked out my local pet store to ensure they had plenty of replacements in case things went badly. And they do—lots of plain, normal goldfish, but of course that’s not the kind my nephew has. He picked out some with black spots. You know what they say about snowflakes? Well the same rings true for black-spotted goldfish. And my nephew is very observant, he’d know in a second if he wasn’t looking at the true Bubbles and Goldie.
No fish in the history of the world were watched closer than those two. I literally counted each flake of food that went in their bowl. I would not be the one who kept that family from moving up to a dog/cat/whatever. So, how did it go? My sister got back Saturday night was over first thing Sunday to pick them up—she must’ve sensed my stress—you know sisterly intuition—or possibly it was the five phone calls and three texts, either way, they’re home and alive and I am free to live my fishless life.
Ever had to pet-sit before? How did it go?