What does not constitute a pet?

Aside from the rodent in our house, that is, which remains on the lam.

(Paige, I think you're right about the squirrel thing. Or maybe I just don't want to imagine a rat that size. Anyway.)

Redneck Mommy's story about Dave the Dead Rat ... ahem... Dave the Dead MOUSE brought to mind my stepkids' replacement-carnival fish that just would not obligingly die.

Disclosure: Not a fish fan. Too much upkeep for a non-cuddly pet that croaks if you alter its water makeup by one molecule.

But these fish — they were annoyingly hardy little things.

Pity.

When I started dating Hubs, I wondered about the fish tank in his living room. It didn't really go with his bachelor decor — like the cluster of deer antlers that lay in a tangled heap on the fireplace mantel.

One day, Hubs explained how a few months earlier, the kids had won these things at some sort of carnival. Actually, what happened is that Stepson won one and Stepdaughter didn't, so Hubs had to spend a lot of money on the Fishwalk so that she, too, would get a goldfish in a baggie.

Which died the next day, along with Stepson's.

There was much weeping and carrying on, because the fish *sob* — oh, how quickly the children had become attached to them.

So Hubs went out and bought replacements. And a fish tank. With all sorts of accessories.

And every other weekend, the kids would come over, glance at the tank, and say, "Oh, they're still alive?" and then head to the television so that they could watch the twiglet twins MK and Ashley, who, annoying as they may be, clearly are more interesting to watch than fish in a fish tank.

Hubs and I got married. And after moving in all my stuff, we realized the fish tank was in the way. For the record: I did not suggest getting rid of the fish.

I hated the little fuc — fishies. I hated the fishies. But you know. The children. What sort of emotional damage would I inflict — me, the newly installed Stepmother — if I were to complain about their beloved pets?

So I kept my mouth shut and secretly wondered if one really can overfeed and sicken fish. OK, yeah, I didn't just wonder. I hoped. Not that I fed them. No need to deprive Hubs of the joy in sprinkling stinky fish food.

Just imagine my surprise when one Saturday morning I wandered into the living room and found Hubs dismantling the fish tank.

"Um. What are you doing?"

"I'm getting rid of the fish. I hate them. I hate this tank. I'm done with fish."

"Um. Where are they?"

(Images of little fishes swirling down the toilet danced through my mind.)

"I stuck them in a baggie. I'm not sure what to do with them."

I nodded meaningfully toward the bathroom.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that. I'll figure out something. I was planning to tell the kids they died of some virus. Maybe I can donate them (the fish, not the kids) to a pet store. Or something."

The children were due to arrive that evening.

Guess who left little baggies of smothered, dead fish on the railing of the front porch for the kids to find?

Yeah, you guessed it — the brilliant man who had concocted a complicated tale of an exotic fish virus and then made me recite it to make sure we had our stories straight.

The man who apparently never made it to the pet store with his "donation."

"Daddy, what happened to the fish?"

"Uh ... "

So I saved him.

"We're pretty sure they caught a virus," I recited. "We found them floating in the tank this morning, and your dad didn't want to just flush them down the toilet. Because it would be, you know, disrespectful."

Guess where the little fish corpses ended up? Guess who flushed them? Not me. Not Hubs.

So much for all our concern about the children's broken, grieving little hearts.

The fish tank sat in our garage for a year. Then I sold it at a yard sale for $5.

And I cackled as my gullible customer and his two kids hauled the aquarium to their car, chattering excitedly about the fish they were going to buy.

I bet that tank's been through five owners since then.