My roommate at the last place I lived had a cute orange cat named Prudence. Prudence took a liking to me immediately. Maybe she only adored me because I had a sunny bedroom that contained a soft bed with a fuzzy blanket. It was also the warmest room in the house. Since Pru was always in my room, we developed a relationship. I'd sing to her, pet her, run up and down the hallway with a red string for her to chase, squish her nose, and tease her. (One of the things I liked to do was to run around the house shaking her can of treats while she ran behind me squeaking out her broken meows.) She in turn greeted me when I came home, and wanted to be wherever I was in the house. It was a very interactive person-to-pet friendship.
Here, in Playa del Rey, John and I have 2 fish. The star attraction is the bright orange and white clownfish that has a cute, wiggly swimming pattern. His name is Gilgamesh, but I insist on calling him Geronimo or Gargamel. The other fish is a boring blue damsel. He doesn’t have a name. He’s “the blue fish”.
I’ve taken up the fun task of feeding them twice a day. I sing to them whenever it’s feeding time (and sometimes when it’s not), say hello to them, and when I’m in a really good mood, I jump around the tank and do a little dance, sometimes mimicking Gilgamesh’s wiggle.
I think that this scares the fish. They look nervous and Gilgamesh gets in his guarding-his-territory position.
No matter how cute the fish are, and no matter how much I want them to be interactive, I will not get that much entertainment out of them. I know this. I really do.
So now I have gotten John to place bets with me on which fish gets the big red flake first when I feed them. I’m not giving up on the fish yet!