BB’s class fish is staring at me. We’re calling him Fishy-wishy. Formerly known at Flippy.

Back in September there was a class vote to name their two fish. BB had her heart set on Fishy-wishy. I don’t know if she’d spell it with a hyphen, but considering Fishy-wishy depends on me for food now, I’ll punctuate at will.

The two fish were named Flipper and Flippy. Flipper didn’t make it. Tough school year for anybody. Flippy did.

A group text went out to the pre-k families:

“Who wants Flippy for the summer?! We promise not to hold you accountable if the worst should happen.”

YES! We have no dog, no cat, no bunny, no chickens, some bugs (uncontained), some mice (very elusive), why not a fish?

And as always, the gloriousness of Captain working right next to the kitchen is that I can burst in unannounced anytime a text moves me.

“Read this! Should we take the fish?!”

“Do we know what’s involved with taking care of a goldfish? I’d figure that out first. Maybe call a pet store?”

Sigh. Of course he’d recommend research. Google is not promising. Looks like more effort than I’m interested in.

At pick-up I ask BB’s teacher,

“What’s involved with taking care of the goldfish?”

“Oh it’s not a goldfish! It’s a tiny little thing. I feed it and change the water a couple times a month.”

“I can do that!”

BB is not sold. She asks,

“What happens if he dies?”

“We’ll bury him in the backyard or flush him down the toilet.”

“I don’t want Flippy.”

Bad time for dead-fish jokes. I backpedal,

“He could die on anyone’s watch. We might as well enjoy him while we can.”

By the time Fishy-wishy comes home, BB is ready for him to sleep with her.

I insist that he needs to live next to the coffee maker. Things that are in the kitchen are more likely to get fed on a regular basis.

Before this I would’ve said a fish is the last pet I’m interested in. That may still be true, but faced with no pets and a limited two-month engagement, maybe shorter, Fishy-wishy was irresistible.

I may also be holding on to all things pre-k. Where’d baby BB go? She’s DESPERATE to be five. On the playground she informs a random kid,

“I’m four and three quarters, but I wear size five clothes.”

She “graduates” today and last day is tomorrow. Fishy-wishy, formerly known as Flippy, came home yesterday. BB says,

“If anyone from Fishy-wishy’s old life is around, we’ll call him Flippy.”

Last night, as I prep this morning’s coffee, Fishy-wishy stares at me. I stare at him. Is he happy? Does he mind being all alone? Is this small container humane treatment of a fish?

What is going on with me? I expected to be: Fish is alive? Good. Fish is dead? Move on.

I really REALLY didn’t expect to be consumed with personifying Fishy-wishy. But here he is, staring at me while I try to write and I can’t help but ponder his quality of life.

He gets to spend his summer at the beach, watching us eat his brethren, so maybe he’ll just be grateful to be alive. As long as that may last.