| Note: A lengthier version of this column will be aired on on the national CBC radio program This Morning, with Shelagh Rogers. Airing date is uncertain; watch for notification on index page. Sunny Side Up April 3, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson All for the love of a fish The Preacher has always wanted an aquarium. Not I. You can�t love a fish, I always said. So when our children were younger we settled on pets that were huggable, that snuggled into your hand, appreciated your attention, made you feel like a god. Dogs and hamsters, mainly, though someone let a cat in once and it hasn�t left yet. Last winter, after years of spouting unfriendly, anti-fish words, I fell in love with a fish. An azure blue Betta, the sole occupant of a large bowl in a friend�s home. Every time he shifted, his great wide fins followed, rippling slowly, flashing luminous glints of sunlight. I was hooked. So I bought the Preacher a Betta for his birthday. The package�fish, food, and one-pint Betta tank�didn�t cost much; about fifteen dollars total. A small sum for a year or two of pleasurable viewing, I figured. The fish I chose was gorgeous�red, with streaks of blue on his fins, and hints of purple when the light hit them just right. When he flared his chin and made his fins tremble, the sight was incomparable. The Preacher thought so too. But less than a week after I brought him home, the Betta got sick--ugly sick. And ate not a flake. I consulted an expert, who suggested I try a larger tank and a special medicine�costing twice as much as the fish itself. A two-gallon goldfish bowl had long been languishing in the garage. I hauled it inside, cleaned it up, and toodled off to the store for the medicine. But such a large bowl surely needed decorating, so I also bought a bag of sky-blue gravel and a stunning piece of aquarium driftwood with plants attached. A bottle of water treatment crystals to remove the chlorine from the tapwater was a must, and I added to my tally a can of more expensive�color enhancing�food which the salesgirl assured me would be devoured immediately. It wasn�t. The medicine didn't help either. My adult son observed my insanity. Pointing to the lengthening line of fish products on the kitchen shelf he asked the cost of each. �Now, Mom,� he said pointedly, �How much was the fish?� �Four-ninety-seven,� I squeaked. He spoke carefully, considerate of my delicate state of mind. �Do you think there�s something wrong here?� (At least he had the courtesy not to say �fishy�). I don�t want to talk about it much. Fact is, I spent over fifty dollars on a two-inch fish that had the discourtesy to die anyway. World Vision could have used that money, or Samaritan�s Purse. And why do I keep humming that old Sunday School song�I will make you fishers of men�.? Meanwhile, the Preacher can�t stop grinning. He noticed the way I mooned over the zebra-striped danios in the store. He figures it�s only a matter of time till there's a real acquarium in the parsonage. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |