Goldfish ownership was very simple when I was seven years old. That’s when I got my first tank and my first goldfish, who I fed fibrous goldfish flakes and told about all my seven-year-old problems, such as the extreme schizophrenia that made me talk to fish.

In an attempt to recapture my youth, I headed off to the Champaign PetSmart earlier this month to buy a goldfish. There I met Elizabeth, a manager with a Bachelor’s degree in marine biology. Her expertise was welcome, because she had the scientific know-how to describe in technical terms why I needed to buy sinking pellet fish food instead of floating flakes. “It’s more expensive,” she explained.

The actual reason I needed the pellets, according to Elizabeth, was that they help fish avoid problems with their swim bladders. I expressed doubt that any fish living under my care would live long enough for its swim bladder to be an issue, but Elizabeth told me goldfish can live up to 15 years. This might have been good news to a goldfish enthusiast, but I was more in the market for a pet I could love and cherish with all my heart for approximately two months, at which time it would go to that big metaphorical fish tank in the sky, by which I mean the poorly-flushing toilet in my apartment.

I wasn’t ready to select a fish yet, but I knew I wanted one from the bottom tank. There was a sound pet-care reason for this: They only cost 12 cents. “Never love anything that costs more than 12 cents”; that is my motto. The 12-cent fish are a breed called “comet goldfish” and are sold mainly as food for larger fish, though this did not stop Elizabeth from explaining why it was inhumane not to house them in a $50 aquarium starter kit.

The kit contained all sorts of essentials, such as a “bacteria starter sample” and a pouch of generic goldfish food. “You shouldn’t feed this to a goldfish,” Elizabeth said of the generic food, in a tone of voice that made it clear that, if I did not get the pellets, I would be a modern-day Cruella De Vil.

“If I buy an aquarium kit, will you throw in the 12-cent fish for free?” I asked.

“No,” Elizabeth said.

So I settled on a squat 1-gallon glass bowl, for only $9. I would have bought pebbles for the bottom, but cleaning them would not have been fun, plus Elizabeth insisted I would need to get something called an “aquarium vacuum,” which she conveniently had available for purchase. I did get the sinking pellets, though this was mostly to keep Elizabeth from reporting me to PETA.

Once I picked out the rest of my supplies, Elizabeth walked to the tank and caught me a fish. She wasn’t able to snatch the one I pointed at, but I didn’t complain because A) she had already spent 45 minutes with me to sell a single 12-cent goldfish and B) she had at least been kind enough to choose one that was not yet dead.

Just because my fish was still alive didn’t mean I wasn’t concerned about his mortality. PetSmart normally has a 14-day money-back guarantee for dead animals, which Elizabeth said didn’t extend to feeder goldfish. I pushed her until we came to a compromise: “If it’s dead before you walk out the door, we’ll do something for you,” she said.

I got the fish home and named him Benchley, though I don’t think he knows that. For simplicity’s sake I have operated under the assumption that he is a male fish, because Elizabeth was unable to discern Benchley’s specific gender with the precision required for, say, choosing someone to marry.

Benchley is still doing great, at least as far as I can tell. I don’t think he’s crazy about the sinking pellets, though, because he basically lets them sit at the bottom of the bowl and disintegrate until they are indistinguishable from his poop. Then he eats the pellets.

At least I hope it’s the pellets.

Scott is a second-year law student. He’s looking for a delicious goldfish recipe, should tragedy strike.