Tyler, R.I.P.

Maybe there should be a comma between someone and help me? Maybe not.

For about a week one of my homies toted Tyler the plastic fish around in a glass bowl. Since the bowl was without a lid (How many times must I buy replacement Pyrex?), he would put Tyler in a plastic baggie when we had to go out. He'd slosh him around in water that turned a cloudy, filmy beige by the end of the day. I can't tell you how many times the baggie leaked--in the car, at the basketball game, and during the Pledge at the cub scouts' Blue and Gold banquet.

After about a week of cleaning up after Tyler and moving his lidless bowl around to different places in the kitchen--Tyler's resting place--I told my homie, "I don't like Tyler anymore. He doesn't lower my blood pressure." And he said, "Nothing does." So as I was cleaning the kitchen that night, I murdered Tyler.

When my homie woke up in the morning and found the note and his beloved Tyler, he said, "Tyler's not dead, Mom. See him? He still has one drop of water on him, so he's alive." I smiled and said, "He must be magic."

My homie walked to the water cooler and filled Tyler's bowl, plopping him back into the water just as it neared the brim. He put the bowl back on the counter and gave him some crushed Saltines for fish food.

I let Tyler stay for one more day, then it was over...