Nemo

My niece and nephew gave us a goldfish for Christmas. We had thought about calling him Nemo (even though he wasn’t a clown fish), then decided on a combination of their and their parents’ names (first two initials) WaKiJaMa (as in Whacky Jama). But then, we started calling him Nemo anyway, so that stuck.
Nemo came complete with weed, water, food and an acrylic bowl which could be fixed to the wall, thus keeping him out of the way of our two cats – unless they found a way to phwup phwup phwup (with suction cups on their paws) their way up the wall.
On the one and a half hour drive back to Sydney from my brother’s place, we determined that we wouldn’t get attached to Nemo. But that wasn’t possible. Especially when he swam over and looked up at you at feeding time.
So we took our new drill out and drilled him to the wall – well, his bowl. (Note to self: start with the smaller drill bits next time!)
Life went on. We incorporated Nemo’s schedule into our own, feeding him in the afternoon, cleaning out his bowl regularly, saying hello as we walked past. It should have been a good life for him – and maybe it was – but it was short. Too short. We found him floating upside down in his bowl earlier this week. Not quite sure what happened except that he had seemed perfectly well the night before at feeding time. He had eaten, as always, with much gusto. And there hadn’t been a peep out of him during the night.
So, even though, as the Encyclopedia Encarta advises that Gold Fish can live to be 40 years old, after only a month, Nemo is no more.