Survival!

of the fittest

One fish,
two fish...
dare I hope?
Three fish!
Four fish!
Maybe I'm not
such a dope?

What a thrill!
Survivors of
the great chill,
the period of
the triste kill
that transpired
against our will.


Neither Seuss nor Emerson am I, but Darwin proves right again! Two might be two females or two males, but four! The chances are that much greater that at least one is a male, capable of rebuilding their numbers, much, much reduced. We know that there were at least 40 killed.

It seemed indecent to take advantage of their sudden stillness in death to count them.

Now, I need to brush up on the mating habits of the goldfish to have an idea of what might be possible in this year alone. I wish I could tag them so I could always know which, very certainly, are these four survivors, the originals from the once great fish population. I feel like Marie Antoinette (Merci, David!), except her pleasure garden had to give pleasures greater than my tiny converted fountain and the modesty of our abodes (that "s" is a bit of an exaggeration, those who have visited here will tell you) compared to hers, a brief stroll beyond the Petit Trianon (the one at Versailles, not North Street in Greenwich), although Louis couldn't hold a chandelle to mon baron.

Go forth and prosper, dear little pinkish-goldfish. We promise to cause you the least harm possible when we empty and repair your basin, your home, your ecosystem.

Could you please let the frogs know?

PS: Joaquim says they will be here Monday. Really. It's ok. It's all Eric's fault.

It's always such a relief to hear that.
....