"Don't you think Moonshine should be dead by now?" Daughter asked last week.
Moonshine is Daughter's goldfish. We inherited her -- note the pronoun refers to the goldfish, not the Daughter -- when Daughter's BFF and her family moved to New Zealand three years ago. They returned a year later, but they never demanded the fish back. And so we have been dutifully caring for it. "We" as in Pete, mostly, as he's the official tank cleaner and the official reminder each day with, "Did you feed Moonshine?"
Daughter thinks the goldfish lived with her BFF -- Daughter's, not the goldfish -- for a number of years before shacking up with us. Since our previous record of keeping a fish alive couldn't have been more than six months, the fact that Moonshine is still with us seems remarkable to Daughter.
And by "is," I mean "was." Yes, Moonshine died sometime yesterday, a mere week after Daughter wondered how she -- the goldfish, not the Daughter -- could still be alive.
I asked her to please never wish me dead. I fear Daughter must have some powerful mojo going on. She swears she would never wish that, and she swears she will never say she hates me.
Just the same, seeing as I, too, was once a nearly teen-aged girl, I think I'm going to be very cautious around her.
*Isn't it bizarre that Blogger thinks "Zealand" is a misspelling?
**We inherited the goldfish but Daughter rechristened her -- the goldfish, not the Daughter -- "Moonshine." Daughter has just learned the other definition of moonshine.
[Image swiped from firehow.com.]