All Fish Go to Heaven

We have had a family tragedy. Our fish, who has been with us for almost a year, bit the dust yesterday. I came in from work and was assualted by a horrid smell. I have to tell you that our house doesn't always smell like Martha Stewart's because we have two furry canine friends roaming freely. But THIS was unlike anything I can put into words. I walked over to the fish bowl because I had been hoping, I mean, THINKING that Ned was not doing so well. He hasn't eaten in like, 3 weeks and due to very large vet bills that were incurred earlier this year, we didn't feel the need to take him to the fish doctor. If doctors for Beta fish exist. I digress.

Poor 'ole Ned was floating belly up at the bottom. I think he went peacefully. I ran out and told Chad, who was shoveling Sunday's snowfall off our deck to prevent serious injury to his wife, and when he came in we had a small funeral for him (the fish) in the bathroom. And then Chad told me the truth. "I think I killed Ned. I didn't mean to. I meant to scoop the extra fish food out." As heartbroken as I am about not having to clean a fish bowl EVER again, I had to give him a hard time about killing the Beta. He suggested that we purchase another fish. I suggested that he keep dreaming.