My 6-year-old daughter has always dreamed of having a younger brother to boss around. Actually, what she really wants is a dog. A feisty yellow Lab puppy that will fetch anything and everything she throws his way. She wants a four-legged companion to “sit,” “heel,” “roll over” and “beg” on her command. She wants to be in control. She hungers to be the master of someone else’s destiny. She wants power!
But what she got is a fish.
After years of begging for a pup, a few weeks ago my pet-loving, power-hungry daughter settled for a fish.
Charlie the fish is the newest member of our family… and boy, can he eat.
Charlie is a Siamese fighting fish, also known as a Betta fish. He sports my daughter’s favorite shade of blue, which explains a lot about her decision to buy him.
“Puppies don’t come in blue,” I cheerfully reminded my daughter as we strolled past the puppies and down the fish aisle at our local pet store.
Charlie’s arrival to our home has been a long time coming. My daughter has begged us for a dog since she was a toddler.
“Me want woof-woof!” she’d cry each time she would catch even a tiny glimpse of a dog.
Back then it was easy to placate her with stuffed versions of her favorite pooch, but newly turned 6 year olds are a bit more savvy. At least mine is.
After explaining to her about the demands pets place on their owners (“You will need to feed him every other day.” “I will, Mommy!” “And keep his bowl clean.” “Oh yes, Mommy” “And make sure his plants stay down in the rocks.” “That’s easy, Mommy!”), we gathered Charlie and his new home (large bowl, stone palace, plants, cobalt blue rocks to match his skin, plastic turtle to keep him company, etc.) and headed to the check-out.
“Now, you’re sure that you are going to take good care of Charlie and I won’t be the one having to feed him?”
My question barely left my lips when my daughter began jumping up and down in front of the store cashier. She settled down long enough to give me the following answer: “Mommy, you won’t EVER have to feed Charlie. That’s my job.”
The pet store cashier smiled, handed me the receipt, and reminded me that if Charlie didn’t survive longer than two weeks with a 6-year-old as his owner, I could get my money back, no corpse needed.
Fast-forward three weeks. Charlie is still alive. However, I can count on three fingers the amount of times my daughter has remembered to feed her new BFF.
Call it mother’s intuition… or common sense. Pets are a big responsibility, no matter how small they are.
Is six too young to have a pet? Maybe. Maybe not.
I’m just glad that it’s a fish I’m feeding, and not a dog that needs to be walked in the dead of winter, because goodness knows who’d be stuck with that “job.”