Condo

Condo is our betta fish. We used to have an excellent and mentally disturbed betta fish named House, but he died of shock after Tom transferred him to nicer digs. Anyway, we got a replacement who was noticeably smaller: thus, Condo. God forbid he dies, too. We’ll have to call the next one “Tenement”. Or “Van Down by the River”. 

Condo isn’t particularly hardy. He gets tired easy. He doesn’t like to eat very much, or follow your finger around the tank. If you change his water he gets cross and sulks for a day or two. Mostly he hangs out at the bottom by his rocks, chilling and observing the world outside his bowl with palpable disgust. 

Condo’s apathy makes me especially nervous when Tom’s away–I don’t want to be the only hand on deck should his ennui turn to suicidal ideation and a necessitate a burial at sea. “Swim, buddy!” I shout at him every once in awhile, tapping rudely on the glass. “Time’s a wastin’!” It’s important to me that he finds the will to live: I don’t think I’m up to flushing our only pet on my own. 

Hang on, Condo. 

Our guy will be back soon.