Goldfish: Hardy as Cockroaches

My daughter fell in loooove, got married, and moved away 4 years ago. Since she married a sailor (and a city boy at that), she left me with her Doberman, her cats, her horses, a room full of stuffed animals, several boxes of books, a shelf full of 4-H show trophies that I had better not toss and have to dust occasionally when the sheep on the trophies look like they are sporting a long coat of wool, her 4-H sheep, chickens, ducks, and her goldfish.

In the intervening time frame, she has produced two lovely children. Her old horse Checkers (32+ years) bit the dust (but the Hell Bitch mare is still going strong at 22). Her Doberman died. Her show chickens have been allowed to mingle, breed indiscriminately, and raise odd-looking crossbred progeny. Her mallard ducks were eaten by foxes. The muscovy descendents are still around, no matter how many I get rid of. Her Rambouillet sheep died of sheer orneriness except for one still holding out. Her hairless cats died of cancer.

The goldfish, though, are still going strong with care from me that varies from indifference to outright neglect. I forget to feed them. I do not clean their bowl on a regular basis. I occasionally have the urge to put in an outdoor fishpond so I can photograph the herons eating them, but (sigh) her dad would tell on me. Here lately, I think that they might be growing on me. They congregate in the fish bowl closest to my computer and stare at me. Occasionally they'll pick up rocks and spit them at the glass to get my attention, I presume, to remind me that they need food. What the hell, the herons will just have to find their own fish.