When pets die.

Mum is super efficient at giving our family the gift of life. And by life, I mean pets.

It started 4 years ago when Harry was 5. She turned up to his birthday party with a huge hutch containing a tiny ginger and white Guinea Pig. Harry called it XO on the spot while Mum convinced me that this was the easiest pet ever to look after and it would teach Harry about responsibility blah blah blah.

About 6 months later we went away for a week, and shipped XO out to my sister’s place for his own holiday. XO was sharing digs with their g-pig, a petite doe eyed brown sow called Coco Pop. 

And low and behold, those pigs shagged for England and produced an heir.

It was a boy! And because of, you know, guinea pigs having no knowledge on the sensitive topic of incest, the son came to live with us. Harry christened him Fooey Fooey Moi Moi and together with XO, they grew to become the hugest, angriest cavies in all the land.

Fooey and XO playing handball

Another time Mum called to say that her friends stable cat had had kittens, and would I like one. I said no, we do not want a kitten.

So low and behold, she turned up with a tiny black kitten. I gave her a lecture of the meaning of the word NO, before realising that this little fella, who we called Chuy, needed us as much as we needed him.

Are you my mother? YES I AM!

And then there was this time, about 6 months ago, that Mum introduced us to the latest forced member of our family.

Harry called him Stanley Psy Woog and he was magnificent. I did not ever write about him, as I figured his time with us would be short. But how wrong I was.

Dem’s fighting fish

Mr Woog has taken the most interest in Stanley’s health and well-being. I think owning such a beast makes him feel tough.

But then, a series of events occurred each more tragic then the last.

3 weeks ago, Mum and Harry went on an outing and came back with another fish tank. In it was 7 little fluro fish, all kitted out with expensive filters and crap. They required a text book of care. We followed all the instructions, but one by one, they swam towards the light and passed into the next world.

There was also another very plain fish in that tank. Standing at about 1.5cm tall, she was grey and her sole purpose was to suck the tank scum from the sides. She was very diligent at sucking, so I christened her Monica Lewfishky.

Monica out-lived all of the fancy, fluro fish by about a week and I was really sad yesterday when I passed her fancy, expensive tank to find her floating lifelessly at the top. She had sucked her last bit of slime and died alone. In my kitchen.

And so ends out brief flirtation of tropical fish ownership.

RIP Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful, Psycho and most of all Monica. You will be missed.

God speed.