Nemo died.
No, not that Nemo.
A few years ago during our daughters’ obsession with Finding Nemo (somewhere between the Frozen phase and Moana chapter), the kids begged for a new pet. Our 70-pound Goldendoodle Charlie and 35-pound Maltese poodle Sammi just weren’t enough for them, apparently. They needed a three-gram fish to complete their family, or just satisfy that day’s preoccupation like boogers or farting.
We ventured to PetSmart on a mission. For my girls, it was finding their new best friend. For dad, it was finding the cheapest and easiest solution for yet another thing I had to take care of. The store’s fish expert rolled his eyes upon my common request, obviously disappointed I didn’t share the same knowledge or passion for some kind of prized aquarium trophy. He started gathering all the necessary supplies and accoutrement for Nemo the clownfish (which evidently needed a saltwater palace and extra bedroom in our house). I was really hoping for a Ziploc baggy and a jar of fish food. After a quick education on our ocean food friends, my wife and I opted for a Betta fish—they don’t play well with others, need only a gallon of water and eat twice a week. Basically, they’re your average college frat dude. Perfect.
I set up Nemo and his new home in the living room, in case he was a big fan of The Handmaid’s Tale and Scattergories. He was equipped with a penthouse plastic cave, multicolored neon gravel, and a few fake plants for feng-shui. I unveiled his abode to the girls, and they became infatuated with Nemo. For six minutes. After fighting over the right to feed him, they lost interest and reverted back to dismembering all the couch cushions. I knew right then and there it was Nemo and I against the world.
I wish the rest of the story was poetic and beautiful (“A Man & A Fish,” they would call it). But it was really anything but. I didn’t walk him, barely spoke to him and even forgot to change his water occasionally. He just…existed. Which kinda sucks. For those who know me, my dogs mean everything. Sammi passed away in January, and I was a wreck. We’re talking ugly crying, sweatpants all day long, brooding over old photos and videos with him. Luckily, Charlie was there to console me, further establishing himself as my ride or die.
But with Nemo, I really felt nothing. I envied his blissful ignorance, circling his water bed, caring only about his next left turn like a locked-in NASCAR driver. I fed him, supplied him a good home and gave him a few good days. Yet I never loved him. I suppose that’s why I could barely muster a reaction when I came upon his lifeless fins tucked in the corner of the tank. I immediately strategized how I was going to break the news. I would be delicate, empathetic, a caring shoulder for the girls to cry on. (They still talk about Sammi to this day, referencing his new lease in Heaven, as if it was some mapped location like Iowa. We’re not an overtly religious or spiritual family, but the explanation was just easier than the alternative.)
I sat the girls down after school, lowered my voice barely above a whisper and divulged the sad news. “Nemo died,” I said. “He lived a good life and really loved you guys. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh. Can we get a bunny now?” My oldest daughter could barely hide her boredom. “That’s silly,” yelled my youngest as she backflipped off the still disheveled couch. “Can we still keep the fish tank, because it’s cool?” Sure, I thought, a little surprised by their hardcore perspective. It made me think of their reactions when I kicked the bucket. “Yeah, he was OK. What’s for lunch?”
I’m sorry, Nemo. You were a good fish. It’s a reminder that life is fragile and death is only a flush away.