If you belong to People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), please read no further. I really don't want you protesting outside my apartment. The neighbors might think I'm operating a brothel or something. That would really upset my landlord, forcing him to take the drastic measure of increasing the rent.

    Besides, you should be protesting at McDonald's and other restaurants, with whom you have a much bigger beef, so to speak. Restaurant owners show no remorse about frying, broiling and grilling innocent animals. And some of these animals had parents and children and their whole lives ahead of them.

    My crime pales in comparison. All I've done is neglect my pet fish. I used to have four small neon tetras. But recently, one fish went missing. His name was Mikey and his hobbies were swimming, eating and excreting. He was last seen wearing nothing at all.

    I couldn't spot him anywhere in my three-gallon aquarium. I think he might have drowned. Or perhaps he followed a comet to the next level.

    I spent a couple of days peeking and peering into the aquarium, wondering what happened to Mikey. Was he murdered or fishnapped? As far as I could tell, none of the other three fish looked or acted guilty. None tried to flee in a white Bronco.

    I couldn't find any clues behind the rocks and plastic plants, so I was forced to call off the search and file a report with the Bureau of Missing Fish. I had to wait in line behind several hundred distraught people. You'd be amazed how many pet fish are just disappearing into thin water.

    Missing fish are an even bigger problem in America than missing socks. But Attorney General Janet Reno refuses to launch an investigation, as though she thinks the president is somehow responsible.

    Most of these missing fish are usually presumed dead, like the millions of other fish that go belly up in aquariums every year. Sad to say, but most fish don't live to see their grandchildren. They survive only slightly longer than a White House dessert.

    The fish breeding industry owes its prosperity to people like me who can't seem to keep fish alive longer than a week or so. We're unsure how to feed them, though they have only two main food groups: freeze-dried worms and dandruff.

    Yes, in case you missed the 20/20 hidden-camera investigation, those flakes we feed our fish are produced in dingy factories by people who never use Head & Shoulders. (Or maybe I dreamed that.)

    It's possible that poor Mikey died because I underfed him. Or perhaps I overfed him. He seemed to enjoy all his food, but when you're stuck in a glass container, you'll eat just about anything that drops from above, even fruitcake.

    It's also possible that I didn't give Mikey enough love and attention, forcing him to commit suicide by swimming to the edge of the aquarium and jumping out. I've known other fish that were suicidal.

    Some jumped every time I played the Bee Gees.

    But I couldn't find Mikey's body anywhere. This prevented me from giving him the type of decent funeral every beloved fish deserves: a few kind thoughts, perhaps a silent prayer and a long, solemn ride down the toilet.

    That's the traditional American funeral for a pet fish, though some fish may receive a bigger honor: the 21-flush salute.

    Mikey deserved such a tribute. He was the best fish I've ever known. (I never met Flipper.)

    I sure hope I'm not responsible for his disappearance. But remember PETA members, no protesting outside my apartment. You've got bigger fish to fry. So to speak.