True Story

Meet Rocky.

(Not an actual photo, duh.)

He was the newest member of our family.

I bought him when my niece Brianna spent the night.

She somehow convinced me she was deprived because she never owned a fish.

When I explained to her I couldn't send her home with a fish without asking her parents for permission, she offered to let this fish live at my house.

I'm a total sucker.

So, like I said, meet Rocky.

He was the newest member of our family.

He lived in Megan's room in his own tank next to Mona.

Then, on Easter morning, I noticed he had bit the dust.

Kicked the bucket.

Bought the farm.

On Easter?

Yes.

On Easter.

So, we did the "usual" when one of our fish dies.

Bury him in the backyard?

Have a little service and say how much we loved him?

Of course not!

John went to the store to buy another one just like him for the old switcheroo.

Here's what happened . . .

(phone rang . . . it was St. John from the store)

And yes, it was open on Easter.

John: They don't have a betta that is blue and red or even anything close to Rocky.

Me: Oh my gosh, are you kidding me? Do they have a plain blue one? A red one? You can't come home until you find a f-i-s-h. It is E-a-s-t-e-r. Oh my gosh. She'll be scarred for life! She'll have nightmares about bunnies and chocolates and d-e-a-d f-i-s-h. (Being ultra careful to spell everything out just in case Megan was listening.) ha!

Then Megan looked at me and condescendingly said,

"Mommy, are you talking about my fish 'cause I really think you should TELL THE TRUTH. He's dead. You should not tell a lie. You should just tell the truth."

(Jaw hit floor . . . )

John came home, life went on, and Rocky got flushed down the toilet.

T-r-u-e s-t-o-r-y.