Lucky.

My college experience, like most, was fundamentally normal. I went to class, rarely got into trouble, and had a grand old time being away from my parents. My college campus, however, was situated in a small town with little else to see and do besides class and homework. My roommates and I were usually busy with tests and such, but every so often we found ourselves not looking for trouble, per se, but simply looking for something—anything—to do.

So, one afternoon, we decided to get a pet.

I know what you’re thinking. Students aren’t traditionally allowed to have pets in college-approved dorms and apartments. The rule makes sense—somebody will be allergic, they’ll ruin the carpet and the furniture, they’ll make noise, they’re smelly… and on and on. But, as with most rules in the college arena, this rule was, as they say, made to be broken. We could always find a loophole. And we did.

Goldfish.

Goldfish don’t smell unless they’re dead, and they don’t poop on the carpet. They don’t eat much, they don’t bark, and they don’t need to be taken out for walks, bathed, or entertained. I don’t know of a single person who is allergic to goldfish, and I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who doesn’t particularly like having one around.

Lucky for us, the local Wal-Mart had a small pet section, and the goldfish were a whopping 99 cents a pop. We were thrilled. Pacing the rows of homeless tank-dwellers, we scouted out the best little fish friends we could find. This is when I spotted him.

Swimming alone off to the side of the tank, a bright orange blur caught my eye. Something about this particular fish was, well, different. He wasn’t swimming in straight lines, but rather, circles. A closer look told me why: Unlike his peppy, healthy brothers, this little guy was born with one fin that was smaller than the rest, which quickly explained his unorthodox swimming patterns. The parallels to Finding Nemo were uncanny, and I couldn’t wait to show my roommates.

“Look, you guys,” I squealed, motioning them over, “He’s got… a… lucky fin!”

We all laughed and watched as the little guy continued to swim in circles.

“Aww,” one of my roommates said, breaking through the laughter, “Poor little guy. He’s so ugly, I bet nobody will buy him.” Our giggles soon turned to furrowed brows and concerned coos and we continued to watch him as the other fish sped by, knocking him to the side.

It was then I knew what I had to do. I was going to buy him and name him Lucky. I’d show those other fish that even the physically handicapped fish needed proper homes, and that their fancy swimming and perfectly formed fins weren’t going to fool me. Not this time.

And so it was. My roommates quickly picked their pals amid the swarms of orange, and we brought our new friends home and plopped them down in a large fish bowl.

Poor Lucky.

As the afternoon faded to evening, I watched him periodically as he swam in erratic loops. A part of me felt sorry for him; part of me was simply fascinated with his imperfection. And I’ll admit, an even bigger part of me felt great about adopting him when I had loads of other strong swimmers to choose from.

But I guess that’s enough self-congratulation. The pinnacle of the story happens the next morning, when I wake up before class and skip into the living room to feed the fish. I’m sure you can guess what I saw. The fish were swimming strong, as they usually did. Lucky, however, was not. In fact, he wasn’t swimming at all.

Lucky was floating.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out when a goldfish is dead. The signs are telling. There is no movement, and they float toward the top, usually stomach-up. It was tragedy in every sense of the word, and my heart sank. My little friend had died in my sleep.

“Aww… poor, poor Lucky,” my roommates said in condolence.

“He was a good fish,” I said, agreeing with them. We stood in silence for a brief moment before someone cracked a joke about how Lucky wasn’t so… “lucky” after all. We laughed. We couldn’t resist.

Later that day, my roommates and I gave Lucky a proper burial. He was flushed to that big porcelain toilet in the sky, ever to be remembered as the lucky little fish that could.

Or, at least, the not-so-lucky little fished that… well… tried.