SquishyPosted: October 8, 2012
Yesterday was a dark day.
Squishy, my pet fish, died.
Now, I know some people don’t really get the point of goldfish as a pet- you can’t stroke them, or take them out, or train them to do things. And I’m with you, they’re not the most exciting pet, but I had genuine affection for Squishy, because of all the pets I’ve had in my life he was the first one that was properly “mine”.
My parents had two cats when I was born, Tom and Jerry, and I loved those guys, but they were my parents’. After they ran through their nine lives we got two more- Yoda and Tiger, and while I named Yoda, he was the family’s cat. I loved him though, he was a traditional grumpy bugger of a cat, and unlike his idiotic brother soon worked out that he should avoid Carrie, the hellhound we got shortly after. So none were mine. Fast forward a few years and my family got two new cats, Tad and Llew, but maybe because I was away at uni during the time we had them I never warmed to either of them that much.
But Squishy? Well, he was mine, hence the name, stolen from Dory in Finding Nemo:
I shall call him Squishy, and he shall be mine, and he shall be my Squishy.
I won him at a fair when I was at university, way back in 2005.
I won him and bought him back to halls where he lived in a glass cooking bowl in direct violation of the “no pets” rule.
I bought food for him and settled in for the next few weeks of caring for him before he took a final ride down the toilet. Goldish from the fair have notoriously low life expectancy.
But not Squishy, he was a survivor.
I’d had him a month or so before there was a fire in our kitchen. A faulty toaster melted and the university staff had to blast it with an ammonia fire extinguisher. Returning to the kitchen as the smoke cleared we found Squishy floating on his side in the tank. As part of the “we told you to get rid of that toaster” faction I left the toaster-lovers to tidy up and went to the pub.
A few pints later I returned and was ready to send Squishy to his eternal rest only to discover that he’d clearly only been a bit under the weather and was now swimming about happily.
Squishy survived the fire and would make it through the long drive back to my Mum’s where he lived out the rest of his days. I figure he was about 7 and a half when he finally bit the dust this weekend. I only saw him now and then when I visited my Mum, but I was still quite gutted about it. But he had a good life, a nice tank to swim in and a friend in Fang, the other fish my Mum got for company. By that I mean company for Squishy, I don’t want to give the impression that my Mum is some crazy old lady who keeps goldfish to keep her company.
Rest in peace, Squishy. You were a good fish and you had a good innings.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.