The Fish Tank Debacle

 George, along with his partner —Macons fabulous hound dog Satchel, starring in the transcribed adventures of the man with the action-packed home life –tonight’s episode:

The Failing Fish Tank Matter

The headlines might have read “Failing Fish Tank at Fish Food Farms causes Mr. Fisher to lose sleep with threat of being flattened by Mrs. Fisher and her tire tool..”

It was bedtime for George. Or close enough until bedtime that I had become one with the recliner. Actually, it’s a love seat. Satchel and I love each other and we both anchor it down as much as Kirk and Spock anchor down the Bridge of the Enterprise. 

Our nightly ritual, in fact, our only remaining task was to go out one last time to water the grass, if you know what I mean.

Wifey Shugaluvs (SL) had been on the phone with the first born, which is all well and fine and SL normally accomplishes this from the Adirondack chair on the back porch because she knows that both television and conversation at the same time drives one to self medicate. 

Anyhow, Satch and I remain anchored to the recliner and quite honestly may have been checking our eyelids for light leaks, when SL comes in and announces to first born “Well I gotta go the fish tank is leaking!”

Before you could say “Abandon Ship! Every man for himself!” I spring forth. 

I sprang forth. 

I sprung forth. 

Hmm. Still sounds right. 

Regardless, this Herculean effort requires me to pull the latch on the side of the recliner while simultaneously pulling down with my legs and tightening my butt cheeks, bringing to bear the force necessary to un-recline the recliner (love seat). 

So I did that. It takes a second or two and when it’s bedtime the struggle is real. 

The fish tank is to my right rear from the recliner (it’s a love seat), which requires me to walk around on the other side of my other love Satchel to investigate the leak. 

Leak is probably not the best term as that would imply drips. Or drops. A trickle. You know, not a lot. 

This was a steady stream of water coming from the base of the 25 gallon tank onto the dresser, flowing down and filling up 3 drawers that were rapidly collecting water along with newspaper clippings, dog outfits, christmas decor, batteries, incomplete decks of playing cards, dominoes, and a brown peanut M&M) before gathering on the floor in what some folks may describe a huge puddle. 

Other folks like me would call it the Great Flood. 

I go to the laundry room to gather a couple of dirty towels to sop up what is quickly becoming Lake Eerie. Before you could say “stack the deck chairs” those towels were rendered useless. 

I ran upstairs as quickly as I could (run is not the right word,but I walked with the gait of a man about to soil himself) and gathered yet more towels. 

Five, to be exact. 

I was, by now, frantic. SL says that I wig out. Both are correct and interchangeable. I go nuts when

things like this happen. The water works instantly take me back to the Septic Tank catastrophe of 2019, which cost me untold dollars, the use of downstairs facilities for a time, a good pair of socks, and fear of flushing the toilet. To this day I will yell out loud “WHAT WAS THAT NOISE?!” at the mere thought of a running toilet or running water. 

Anyhow, back to the fish tank. As we tried to sop up the water we also attempted to save the fish. I took the net and scooped. And scooped. I tried cornering them, cussing them and had little luck. SL took over while I siphoned the water into a 5 gallon bucket. The problem was that the fish tank water was still coming out of the tank at a faster rate than the siphon hose could siphon. For a moment I could hear the band playing ‘Nearer My God to Thee’…

“MORE TOWELS!!” I bellowed in my best Military influenced command voice ‘loud enough for those in the back’ as I continued to wig out. 

SL advised me to calm down. She advised this in such a manner that my being hard of hearing was of no matter. In fact, her military influenced command voice was multitudes (and decibels) better than mine. 

As my, shall I say, excitement continued, SL reminded me that if I didn’t :

1. CTFD and ;

2. STFU (full disclosure: SL didn’t use the acronyms) and that she would;

3. Find the method(s) to force me to do number 1 and 2 in that order. 

She mentioned something about a tire tool but I don’t really recall because when she used her military influenced command voice I peed a little. 

So I did what any real Man would do in the same situation. I complied. 

George C. Fisher. The ‘C’ is for Compliance. 

SL and I both heave ho’ed and lifted that damned tank out to the back porch where the remaining water (approximately 5 gallons) didn’t leak another drop. That remains a mystery.

The crisis was over in about an hour. As far as I’m concerned, it counts as exercise.

 It was well past my bedtime, but as the saying goes, “Who the hell can sleep in this weather?!?”

EPILOGUE 

The fish were relocated into a punch bowl we received as a wedding gift some 33 years ago. I removed the drawers from the dresser and aired out the belongings on the front porch.

There are now 6 towels in the laundry room being renewed and refreshed where they will once again be used to dry my hiney and not the floor. 

That was the first time we have ever used that punch bowl.