bubbles no trouble

My other kids are doing well. Much improved. Finn has been spending less time on top of my cabinets, where he’d send small plumes of fur wafting down onto my countertops. He and Nelly seem to be negotiating a complex tolerance treaty covering times, spaces, and proximity to….me. It’s too complicated for me to completely understand or attempt to explain in detail, but there definitely exists a strictly observed and enforced order pertaining to what’s allowed, where, and when. It’s amusing and puzzling and I’ve only seen this sort of thing with felines. My dog Buddy was completely oblivious to to the mores of animal-human interaction and parked himself in the middle of everything with benign exuberance. It’s good to see progress between these two, but it kind of bums me out that they won’t hang out with me at the same time, like a little family.

I think I could be the Mia Farrow of animal adoptions if there wasn’t a limit of two uncaged animals per unit here. Having these two delightful creatures hasn’t stopped my periodic prowling at Petfinder and imagining myself saving more, more, more, ala St. Francis of Assissi, one damned iota. The kiddo wants a pair of birds, and I swear on a given day, at a vulnerable moment, bang! I’ll be telling you about Ella and Miles, two finches I’ve been fancying. In my head. So far.

But wait, there is a new obsession; I mean addition, to the fold. We adopted a beautiful, unhappy little betta fish. He looks like this. A kind lady gifted him to us after her pellet stove couldn’t heat her house enough for this tropical fish. I named him Harold. Harold is very happy now. I know this because of the tiny clusters of bubbles (they’re called nests, and in the wild–that is, in the rice paddies of Asia–Harold would be doing this to attract a mate to lay eggs, afterwhich he’d chase Mama off and tend to the eggs himself). In the domesticated pet world, bubble nests are taken as a sign of a happy betta. Harold had no bubble nests when I met him. He does now. Who’d have thought the equivalent of icky spit bubbles would please me so?

You’d think I’d just park his bowl somewhere and that would be it. And I did, in the warmest room of the house, which happens to be my bedroom. Except, I don’t spend much time up there and can’t see him. Harold is up there. Alone. I can’t have that. Sooooooo….I grab his bowl when I’m feeling kind of stressed out, and take it downstairs with me over to my desk, or onto the middle of the dining table and just watch him swimming and gliding around underwater, playing, the way I would like to be doing if it weren’t 10 below. Anyhoo, in so doing, much of Harold’s great work is undone. Bubbles gone.

I see a tank in Harold’s future. A nice, cozy, plant filled tank. Heavy. So I’ll leave Harold the hell alone. If I can.

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