He died this morning. His name was Fred. I loved him like I do a brother.
I would never, however, flush my brother down the toilet.
Poor Fred. He lived a good, if limited, life. Sometimes I’d watch him. Quite a character. He’d swim right. Then, when least expected, he’d swim left. Sometimes when he pooped, a long string would dangle from his microscopic anus and trail him around the tank.
R.I.P., buddy. R.I.P.