Ted

We were sitting at the table eating tacos when Tyler made the discovery.

“Hey, I think Ted’s dead.”

I repositioned the fishbowl so I could get a better look inside to see our beloved beta deceased in the middle of the spider plant roots he loved so much.

I never expected Ted to live forever — he was four years old. Apparently the average life expectancy is three years. I cleaned his bowl almost every week, fed him regularly and never too much, and also talked to him. Not that our conversations we involved (they were one-sided) but it was nice to think that he was listening when my dogs were ignoring me. 

His death shouldn’t have surprised me. All the signs were there: Ted hadn’t been swimming as much, he stayed in the same place and didn’t eat a lot. 

I wouldn’t classify myself as fish person. I’m not really into aquariums. But after fish-sitting a co-worker’s beta for 10 days, I decided I wanted one of my own. I picked one out with the help my niece Mazie at a pet store in Boulder. Ted then traveled with us over a mountain pass to his new home in Vail. There he lived happily at 7,200 feet in our small apartment. He spent his days puffing up when I would torment him with a mirror, listening to drunken games of dice around the table, and patiently waiting for us to come home after work. Like any animal confined to a bowl, his life was easy and predictable, but had everything he ever needed, along with a pet owner who appreciated him.

After some time in Colorado, we decided to move to Washington. To spare the poor fish from the trek, I planned to leave Ted with our friend Kent. But Tyler — who never had anything to do with Ted — insisted he come with us because he was part of the family. 

To transport Ted without killing him, I cut a hole in the top of a plastic container so he wouldn’t suffocate during the 1,300 mile journey. He sat on top of the center console between me and Tyler, and our two dogs were in the back seat of the truck. We left our Rocky Mountain home at 8 a.m. and set off for the coast. To save money on gas, my husband refused to turn on the air conditioning. We drove through Colorado, Utah, Idaho and just across the Oregon border with only the windows rolled down to cool us. This was July: hot, sweltering summer. The dogs and I were suffering, but it wasn’t until I mentioned Ted’s declining health did we pull over to get an ice cube at a Wendy’s to cool down the water. Then we were able to use the air conditioning the next day - just so Ted wouldn’t die. 

But that wasn’t the end of Ted’s journey to our new home. He lived with us in a pop-up trailer for a month while we were looking for a house. His new life on top of the mini fridge gave him a front row seat to our down-sized life in a trailer park. He would keep me company while Tyler was working 80 hour weeks during the summer, watch over the place while I took the dogs for hikes, and snuggle into the roots at night when the mercury dipped. 

His last big move was from Deception Pass to Coupeville — his final home. Our first night in our house, he sat on the counter with Tyler and me because we didn’t have any furniture but a mattress on the floor. He swam around as we chowed down on frozen pizza, still flabbergasted that we were home owners. 

We soon moved in our furniture and he returned to his rightful place at the kitchen table. Listening to all over late night discussions about us and our future. It was there Ted first heard Tyler’s proposal to buy the Oystercatcher and have his own restaurant, and I said sure, not thinking it was actually going to happen.

Ted was able to see us make it through our first year of business, and hear us begin scheming about improvements for the second year. I’d like to think he knew we’d made it, and that we were going to be alright. 

We couldn’t continue eating our tacos with Ted’s body in the middle of the table. So we had to pause dinner and say a few words about his life while we flushed him down the toilet. About how he marked a crucial transition in our lives, and that we never would forget him.

A few days later, I couldn’t take seeing the empty spot at our kitchen table anymore, and needed to fill the void. I needed a new listener. I needed a new fish.

When I walked into the pet store for a new beta, it didn’t take me long to find one. I immediately spotted a fish from Ted’s school - same coloring, markings and what I perceived as attitude. 

So now we have Teddy — a younger, sprier version of the late Ted. He moves around a lot more, and likes to puff up and attack your finger if you put it to the glass, just like Ted used to do. I think he likes his new home, and will adjust to his way of life here just fine. Now that we’ve settled down, I don’t think his life will be nearly as adventurous as Ted’s, but I do know that we will never leave him behind.