What’s on my mind? Buford, the dog of a woman I know only through social media, died the other day. Buford’s human companion posted his photo online. He was a beautiful dog. He had moxie. He had soulful eyes. He liked to play. I loved him from afar, as countless others did.
This made me think about Frankie. Dear little Frankie. Perhaps, when you read about Frankie, you’ll love him from afar, too. Frankie was a betta, also known as a Siamese fighting fish. Appropriately named, these are solitary fish: Housed with another betta, they’ll rip their partner to pieces, just as some married couples do.
I’m not quite sure how it happened, but Frankie wriggled his way into my second blog, Nicole Parton’s Favorite Recipes. You’ll find his name in the Index under F. Frankie became the Beau of the Ball, with a fan club and entries titled Frankie Joins the Witness Protection Program; Frankie Launders Money; Frankie Takes a (Disastrous) Vacation; Frankie Gets Uppity, and more.
As Frankie’s online life expanded, I dubbed him “my personal secretary and chauffeur.” He went surfing on a nail file. He developed an emotional attachment to the fictitious Sadie, an Advice to the Lovelorn columnist.
Frankie was fun to write about and fun to observe. We even took him with us on vacation. And then, not quite four years ago, he died.
The death of a little fish can’t compare to the death of a dog, but we still felt sad, particularly because it was our misplaced kindness that did him in. When we first got Frankie, a pet store clerk said he needed only one pellet of fish food every second day. Frankie was smart and manipulative: He soon learned to link our hovering over his bowl with the appearance of food.
He begged; he cajoled; he wanted more. One pellet every second day soon became two a day. He rose to the surface to flip his tail, all the while staring at us. He wrapped us around his little fin.
Two pellets soon became three … four … five. Still, he wanted more. Frankie’s tiny head began to swell ... big, bigger, monstrously. He sank to the bottom of his bowl, fins flipping lethargically. We were shocked. He stopped pooping. We tried online remedies. Nothing worked.
Frankie’s online persona was fictional, of course. He didn’t bake cookies; he wasn’t my chauffeur, but he did drive us to love him. Frankie didn’t recover from our overfeeding; with teary-eyed goodbyes, we euthanized him. He was a real fish who captivated our hearts; Frankie now lives on in my blog.
Was Frankie important to our daily lives? Yes. Would we buy another betta? Perhaps: We’ve kept his little bowl.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
