I hesitated to blog this because Laura will read it and use it against me in therapy when she’s a teenager. Also, Betta fish activists from across the country might come and picket my house. But still, perhaps under the influence of the intercessory prayer of a saint whose help I requested, I feel the need to confess. I think I killed Deb. I hadn’t cleaned her tank in ages and tonight I discovered her floating corpse. Maybe life just wasn’t the same without Napoleon, but I’m guessing that she didn’t die of a broken heart. After all, with his passing, she got the whole darn tank to herself. Lucky. Anyway, I’m thinking that she might have committed suicide in protest of her poor living conditions. Wouldn’t you off yourself if you were forced to swim in your own excrement and were only given a couple of tiny, odorous pellets to eat each day? Moreover, the only time Deb could have any privacy was when she’d swim into her SpongeBob pineapple house, which had to suck because the SpongeBob pineapple house doesn’t even have cable. Just call me Darla. If there are animals in the afterlife, I’m in deep trouble because for sure I’m on their Ten Most Wanted List.

Deb, in happier times

Funeral services for Deb will take place tomorrow at dawn, or as soon as Laura wakes up. The interment will be in our backyard. Deb will rest in peace alongside her partner, Napoleon, and their best friend, Pedro. Following the funeral there will be a brief visit to PETCO to purchase a new Betta fish. I promise to keep its tank really clean.

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