September 7, 2025 by Amy
The Unabridged Tale of Pesto The Flying Fish
This is a true story about a fish how much I love my child.
Last January, while at work, I got a notification on my phone that my college freshman daughter, newly back on campus 1,500 miles away from home and without a car, completed a 30-minute drive. Zoe never leaves campus—when campus has a Target, Trader Joe’s, Starbucks, and sushi, why would you ever leave? I was curious, if not a little alarmed. I checked the app we share to see where she was. (Note that I track my husband on this app more than my child. She tracks us, and will frequently text us bon mots like, “How’s Costco?” with a winky face emoji because she’s Creepy Stalker Child.) She was far from campus in what looked like a shopping center? My calendar said she was supposed to be in a physics lab. Since Zoe never skips class, my spidey senses were tingling. I shot her a text.
“You ok?”
“Yes! Will explain later. Hold.”
I held. Went back to work since there was clearly no reason to worry. Turns out, there was a massive reason to worry, but not over anything serious.
Zoe FaceTimed us later, giddy. She wanted to introduce us to her new pet: a Betta fish she named Pesto. (The fish is blue.) (I don’t know.) I smiled at her and said, “Yay! So fun! What the hell are you going to do with that fish over summer break?” Her grin didn’t falter. “Oh, Mom. He’ll die way before summer break! I don’t think he’ll even last until spring break.” My child, the realist.
She and her roommate, Nehir, had taken a Lyft to Petsmart and, well, bought pets. Her lab had gotten out way early so she seized the gift of bonus time and off they went. Nehir’s fish was female and named Tuna. They told us all about how they had to keep them separate because Pesto would probably eat Tuna or they’d fight each other to the death. They had ordered plastic fish bowls, rocks, and fake plants from Amazon. She had to have known that we would counsel her against getting a fish which is why she didn’t tell us before. The deed was done, and M and I found ourselves the proud grandparents of a beautiful blue grandfish.
The semester wore on and, nearly every time she called, Zoe put Pesto on the video so we could say hello. Tuna, never a very active fish, eventually succumbed and Nehir flushed her carcass unceremoniously down the toilet. I can see why they never bonded. Every time Zoe put Tuna on FaceTime, the fish just sat there, unmoving. “Is it alive?” I’d ask. “Yeah, she’s just lazy,” Zoe would reply.
Pesto persevered.
And then it was spring break. “Mom. I never dreamed he would last this long.” We did some research and, with careful planning, she made arrangements for Pesto to enjoy a week of solitude in the dorm. Off Zoe flew to Florida, while Pesto enjoyed his fresh bowl and some extra food. She returned a week later, slightly anxious.
Pesto persevered.
She was thrilled, but also admitted that she had been prepared for the worst.
“Don’t worry, Mom. He’ll never make it to summer.” She continued her studies and I regularly got to chat with my grandfish. And then the semester was over and she was cramming for finals and finding a storage unit with her roommates for the fall and packing her stuff.
Pesto persevered.
The TSA website assured us that she could carry her fish on the plane, which once again went against our better judgment.
“Why don’t you find someone there to take care of him?”
“Trust, Mom. Trust. I got this.”
Off she went to the airport in a Lyft with two suitcases to check, a backpack, a duffle bag, and a fish in the small plastic container from Petsmart. Well, it was actually Tuna’s container, as Zoe realized too late that she had packed Pesto’s. Thankfully she had just chucked the extra container in the trash and was able to fish it out. This is why Pesto had to travel in a container marked “Assorted Female.” The indignities he suffered! He chafes at being called “assorted.”
TSA notes that discretion on allowing fish through security is up to individual officers, so we waited with bated breath until she cleared security.
“Traveling with a fish is so fun, Mom! People keep doing double-takes and a whole college athletics team walked by and stared and one guy said, ‘Is that a fish?’ and I said yes and he smiled and said, ‘Dude, that is so sick.’” Then she was on board and sent us an ussie, just a girl and her fish.
They landed and I picked her up outside the airport and there he was, swimming happily in his travel container after flying across the country.
Pesto persevered.
All summer long, my grandfish enjoyed his bowl on my kitchen island. I moved my decorative painted bowl from Mexico to the top of the refrigerator to make space for him, as Zoe insisted that he stay in the great room with us. Pesto is quite social, after all. He’d be lonely in her bedroom. We were halfway through summer before I realized that with her flying to Berlin for a class and then directly on to LA for the semester, it would be on us to care for and then get this damn fish back to California.
“Don’t worry, Mom. There’s no way he’s making it through the summer.”
As the break wound down and she prepared to fly to Berlin, I got nervous. She taught me how to clean his bowl and how much food to give him and then off she went, without a care in the world. I eyed Pesto warily. “It’s me and you, bro. Don’t you dare die now.”
Pesto persevered.
And then we packed the car with two boxes full of her stuff to check, our two carry-on bags, A CPAP machine, our two computer bags, and a blue fish in a plastic travel container, and we all headed to the airport. Without ever having a conversation about it, we settled into an easy rhythm. I carried the fish and my backpack. M managed everything else.
We got to security and loaded the belt with all our stuff (thank goodness for Pre-Check) and I walked gingerly toward the metal detector with Pesto. I held him up and grinned sheepishly at the agent on the other side, while simultaneously pulling up a pant leg to show my new knee brace. (Yes, I was conducting this escapade injured. I should get a fucking medal or something.) He smiled back and waved me through, and then gestured toward another agent standing at the end of the conveyor belt. “He’s gonna have to check that brace. The fish is fine.” Perfect.
Only the second agent didn’t hear any of that. He ignored the knee brace entirely and took Pesto from my hands. He held the container up and watched Pesto swim around a bit, handed him back, and said, “Have a nice flight.” The “crazy fish lady” at the end was heavily implied.
Pesto persevered.
Off we went to find some lunch. Pesto swam around in his container on the table between us, attracting much attention just as Zoe had told us he would.
Then it was time to board and I sauntered up to the gate (as much as one can saunter in a knee brace). We had gotten Pesto past security! Smooth sailing from here on out! And a bonus: M is A List so we had super early boarding passes. We’d get an exit row for sure.
M scanned his boarding pass and headed down the jetway. The gate agent was snippy and said, “You have too many carry-on bags!” I said, “Oh, one of them is mine, and one is a CPAP which doesn’t count toward the two carry-on limit as it’s a medical device. We know the rules!” I smiled beguilingly. She huffed and scanned my boarding pass and then, just as I started to move, snapped, “You can’t take that fish on the plane.”
What?
I stopped and M, halfway down the jetway, stopped and turned around. I motioned him to keep going, he ignored me, and the gate agent said, “You can go down there but I’m telling you right now, that plane will not go with a fish.” Then she smiled smugly. “You will inconvenience alllll these other people.” She gestured to the full waiting area, with a whole plane’s worth of people now watching the drama unfold. Hundreds of eyes locked on me. And my fish.
“But TSA cleared the fish!”
“That doesn’t matter. TSA will clear anything.” [Editor’s note: this statement does nothing to inspire confidence among the flying public.]
“My daughter brought this fish home from LA at the start of summer, two and a half months ago. She flew on a plane. It was fine.”
“Did she fly Southwest?” <in an overly snippy voice that made me realize that this was about to get real ugly>
“Yes. On Southwest. I have a photo of her on the Southwest plane with this fish in this container, if you’d like to see it. Please do not make me kill my daughter’s pet.”
“Ma’am, I love animals.” [I doubt the veracity of this statement.] “But our rules say you cannot take fish or turtles or reptiles on the plane. It’s not my decision.”
I resisted the urge to explain to her that turtles are reptiles and instead took a deep breath to calm down. I gently asked, “May I please speak to someone who can make this decision?”
She sighed and picked up the phone, while starting to scan other passengers’ boarding passes. I gesticulated wildly to M to continue boarding. I was not going to miss exit row because this bitch was pissed about a fish. He realized the same thing and headed toward the plane, still toting all of our stuff.
A few minutes later, a gentleman in a Southwest vest approached the gate agent and asked what was going on. I couldn’t hear her over the other passengers and the beeping of the boarding pass scanner and the fact that she was speaking with an angry hiss. She motioned to me and that’s when he looked over and saw me for the first time.
I looked in his face and saw my and Pesto’s savior.
I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Please, sir. This is my daughter’s fish. I’m just trying to get it back to her. She flew home with it at the beginning of summer and I’m taking it back to her today. Please don’t make me flush my daughter’s pet.”
My savior looked confused.
He told me to wait and went down the jetway, disappearing around the corner and into the plane. I’m convinced he asked the pilots if they minded if a live Betta fish was brought on board. He returned a few minutes later, smiled, and said, “Go ahead and board. It’s fine.” That’s when my eyes couldn’t contain the tears any more. I full on bawled at this man and then threw my arms around him, holding Pesto level in one hand. “Thank you SO MUCH!”
The gate agent screwed up her weaselly little face, muttered, “It’s on your head,” at Pesto’s savior, and continued scanning boarding passes. She took her frustration out on the poor woman behind me, insisting she take off her tiny crossbody bag and stash it in her tote to board. I headed down the jetway, jubilant in my victory.
Pesto persevered.
As I boarded the plane, passenger after passenger met my eyes and commented. “The fish made it!” “Yay! It’s the fish!” “I’m so glad they are letting the fish fly!” There was cheering. These people got a great story. (Passengers of the August 16 Southwest flight 645, you’re welcome.)
I settled in next to M in the spacious exit row. Ok, now it’s smooth sailing. The woman behind me leaned forward. “Excuse me, is that a fish?!” She was very excited. “Oh, he’s beautiful!” I proudly showed him off and explained that he’s our grandfish. M said, “Put him away. Put him on the floor!” I was too afraid I’d accidentally kick him but I should have listened. The flight attendant came by. “Oh my goodness! What a cute little fish! What’s his name?” Pesto. “Hi Pesto! He’s so pretty!”
She went to continue down the aisle, halted, and came back. “Wait, hold on a sec. Yeah, no pets are allowed in the exit row. Sorry!” I laughed. “Ma’am, if this plane goes down, I will sacrifice this fish to get the door open.” I also knew not to push my luck so I immediately clicked my seat belt open. “No problem. I’ll move back.” Pesto and I scored an aisle seat four rows back and we got ourselves situated once more.
The tiny woman next to me largely slept through the flight and I didn’t know if she was even aware that I was holding a fish, since at this point I was taking M’s advice and trying desperately to not draw more attention to either of us. Four hours later, at baggage claim in LAX, she and her husband passed me. “Goodbye, fish!” she said with a wave and a kind smile, before sailing out the door into the bright Los Angeles sunshine.
Pesto persevered.
Epilogue
Pesto was transferred to his fish bowl—with some fresh spring water purchased at a nearby 7/11—on the 21st floor of the Doubletree Hilton Downtown Los Angeles before enjoying a ride to the University of Southern California campus where he has been installed as the Official Apartment Pet of Room 5307. Upon arrival, Zoe texted Nehir, her roommate from last year, to let her know that Pesto had now completed two cross-country flights and was thriving. Nehir texted back: “No. Fucking. Way.” Exactly, Nehir.
Long live Pesto.
End Notes
- The infamous fish flight to Los Angeles was conducted on my 52nd birthday. I can’t imagine a better present than to get a great story for the day. This will go down as one of my most memorable birthdays, for sure.
- Zoe adopted Pesto on M’s birthday, so the fish’s full legal name is Pesto Mike Zlatic. I can’t make this shit up.
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