I was mentally preparing myself for my Physical Torture session last week, when I received a call from Fiddledaddy. He was eerily calm, but I could tell from ALL THE SCREAMING in the background that something was amiss. He reported to me that water was pouring out from the aquarium. Now, by “pouring out,” I assumed that a trickle of water had made its way onto the counter. Likely the hose from the filter had backed up. And then he asked me urgently where the fish net was. “The fish net?” I couldn’t imagine that this trickle of water should warrant my beloved fish being extricated from their home. Fiddledaddy then informed me that by water “pouring out” from the aquarium, he meant LIKE A WATERFALL OVER THE KITCHEN COUNTER.
I heard the two youngest screaming children mourning the certain death of the only pets we had left. I remained calm as I informed them of the whereabouts of the fish net, knowing I might never see those fish again in this lifetime.
I had a decision to make. I could ditch Physical Torture and leave my therapist in the lurch so that I could face the carnage at home, or I could stay and be bent into shapes that even a pretzel should never endure.
I chose the torture. I lay on the padded table and went to my mental happy place. For the next hour I concentrated only on the clear and present pain, rather than on the danger that awaited me at home.
I drove home slowly after my appointment.
When I arrived, the aquarium had been relocated to the back yard, the shell-shocked fish were encamped in a very small fish bowl, and every towel in the house was soaked and smelled of aquarium water.
Fiddledaddy did an excellent job of handling the aquarium emergency as well as two high-strung children.
I should make a hasty exit during all emergencies from here on out.
I made the not-so-difficult decision of carefully packing the fish up and taking them to my local pet store, so that they could be adopted out by a family who did NOT buy their aquarium at Wal Mart.
Later, as I put the 5th load of towels into the washing machine, I mused to Fiddledaddy, “For the first time in our married life, we are officially pet-free.”
“Not so fast. You forgot about the ants in the bathroom.”
Indeed. When we were away camping, an army of ants commandeered my bathtub. We placed no fewer than 4 ant bait traps (the industrial strength variety) around my beloved garden tub. Honestly, I think the bait is just making them intoxicated. They drunkenly fall into the tub, and then climb their way back out for more. And they have invited all the neighborhood ants to their party.
Jensen has taken to naming them, and I’m currently hosing myself off in the yard in lieu of my daily soak.
Pets are over-rated.