Ahab's Daughter: On Detesting Pet Fish

Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him! --Herman Melville

When my husband suggested buying a fish aquarium for my daughter's fourth birthday this year, I probably rolled my eyes.  Having never had them as a child because my family subscribed to the philosophy of owning pets with which you can actually interact, I have never understood why anyone would want to own fish.  Moreover, while aquariums may provide some scenery in the doctor's office waiting room, it always strikes me as sad.  I actually feel sorry for the fish, evolved to exist in a vast ocean, river, or lake, confined to a few square inches of space with immutable scenery and food.

Let's talk about the food.  We have owned three fish now in the span of two months.  One has survived.  According to the pet store merchants (aka: aquarium life experts), we are "overfeeding" the poor things.  Of course we are.  How does one interact with a fish?  You feed it.  That's it.  That's all there is.  Flounder, our lone survivor, must be the piscine equivalent of the orchid--a virtually indestructible houseplant (although, I have been known to kill the latter).  As a result, the name "Flounder" will necessarily live on in our household as a ubiquitous symbol for that which perseveres against the odds and certain death--in short, that which cannot be destroyed: as in, "Emily really pulled a Flounder passing that test she didn't study for."  

I've secretly wondered if Flounder is not somehow responsible for the death of his fallen comrades.

We are waiting to set Flounder up with another victim, errr companion, until we feel more secure about our ability to feed fish without lethal consequences.  At this point Emily is reluctant to get attached.  She doesn't even want to name the new fish anymore after her first, Purple Rainbow (a yellow and white fish, of course), passed into that Big Ocean in the Sky.  After Purple Rainbow came Mickey--perhaps more reasonably named for the black marking on his tail that exactly resembled a Mickey Mouse head silhouette.  I had such high hopes for Mickey.  He/she (who the hell knows!) actually came to meet me when I looked in to check the survival rate.  He/she seemed so hearty and active.  The creature, whose gender we will never know (another flaw of the fish pet, I firmly believe), was, it turned out, just days away from a slow death of food-induced toxicity.  Not a pretty way to go.

I suppose there are (yet undiscovered) rewards to owning fish--a satisfaction akin to seeing a houseplant thrive, maybe.  But, really, at best, the payout seems to be the feeling of not killing something.  A mediocre "reward," methinks.  When the house pet becomes an activity in checking for signs of life, maybe it's time to consider the effects on the children.  It may, in fact, be time for a kitten.  A cat at least lets you know it can't stand you, and there's some recompense in that kind of certainty.