The Day The Hoover Died

I never told the story about how Hoover went to his eternal resting place. My giant, polka-dotted plecostomus left this world last year. I guess I should say I pushed him out of this world. That's right; I am a murderer.

It wasn't Hoover. It was his fish tank. First the tank's hood light malfunctioned. I bought a new bulb for it but realized it wasn't the bulb but the entire hood that was broken. So the tank went dark and remained shrouded in gloom.  Then, the water turned green. I tried changing the water, which consequently killed every fish except Hoover. I tried siphoning the water with a plastic tube, a rubber pump and a bucket. The only result was water and olive green slime spilled and seeped out everywhere. Then the filter broke. I bought a new one. Then that one leaked and warped my hardwood floor. At that point, I had had it.

Hoover was completely indifferent to all of this. Heck, I would pluck out one of his twice-a-day algae tablets, drop it in the water, watch the tablet drift lazily to the aquarium's floor and Hoover wouldn't even twitch. He didn't care that his home seemed to be falling apart. Sometimes I wondered what went on that fishy little mind of his.

I don't want to know what he was thinking the day I terminated him. Betrayal? Terror? Rage?

The most animated I would see that big dude was the day I made the water dropped lower and lower and lower his tank. Hoover thrashed wildly, trying to find a pocket of water. It felt sickening - what I was doing.

I remember looking at my dog Milo, who was still pretty much a newcomer to the household, and loudly and repeatedly telling him that this would never be his fate.

When the tank was emptied I scooped poor Hoover out. He couldn't be flushed down the toilet; he was too big. I put him gently in a bucket and left him outside. For an unknown and illogical reason,  I thought this would be a better way to go. Although my crime made any effort to be a humanitarian pathetic.

In recounting the events to my folks, my father remarked that it was regrettable Hoover's death happened, which sums it up nicely.

Hoover was a good fish; he wasn't like the goldfish my sister had as a kid that turned into a raging cannibal. He wasn't like tiger barbs that were always the bullies of  my families' aquariums and he wasn't like all our childhood guppies that seemed to instantly go "belly up." He was just Hoover; the rock in the tank that would occasionally shift around.

I am noting here that I did try to save Hoover's life. The only pet store in town wasn't interested in having him and since the tank was broken I couldn't think of anyone who would want to adopt him.

I remember Hoover fondly; I hope what years he did have with me were fond for him, too.