Fish Killer
My boyfriend, Jason, woke me that morning, his voice and eyes tight with strain, his face painted with sadness. He is not usually so emotionally demonstrative and I steeled myself for terrible news. I held him tightly while his body shuddered with racking sobs. Eventually he managed to croak, “Alpha is dead.” Through a fog of sleepiness and shock I understood his grief instinctively, though it took a few moments for the implications to sink in. And then the floor fell from beneath me; I was a fish killer. Jason and I are both huge animal lovers. We each grew up in households where pets were as much our relatives as any human. So the years we lived without any critters to care for were somewhat lonely; it just isn’t home without a cat or a dog stalking you to the bathroom. We fantasized about the day we would be able afford to pay our cat deposit or, better yet, move into a dog friendly house. Daydreams of doggy doors danced in our heads. Since neither of those options was financially viable, I decided to bring home a little blue betta fish as a surprise – no deposit necessary. Jason’s eyes lit up when the little fins fluttered in his direction. “He’s so cute!” he proclaimed in a voice higher than he’d like me to share. In that instant our drafty, overpriced apartment became a home. We named our new charge Alpha and went right to work reading everything we could about how to care for him. Neither of us had had a fish before and we both believe in taking responsibility for all creatures under our care. And was there ever a lot to learn. Water chemistry alone was days and weeks of reading debates on water sources and chemical treatment - bottled or tap, how long to age the water, what kind of Ph treatments to use, etc. Additionally, there was fresh water carnivore nutrition, as well as potential health problems and their treatments to research.
Meanwhile, Alpha wriggled his way into our hearts. Before long, he was Jason’s “little Boobela” and my “handsome little fishy man” - the long lost blue scaly son we never had. He would greet us in the mornings and play with us at feeding time. I’ll never be able to prove it but I swear he talked to me while I did dishes. And when we did finally get a cat, they seemed to be the best of friends; sitting next to each other on opposite sides of the aquarium glass for hours. We were one big, happy, multi-species family. Eventually, however, Alpha’s health began to turn. He developed a common infection called “fin rot” near his tail that we could never seem to heal. As bettas are air breathers who snatch their food and little breaths from the water’s surface, this had disastrous complications for his overall well being. Swimming to the top for a gulp of air or a morsel of food grew increasingly difficult. We had to place a series of plants and rocks inside the tank so that he would have places to rest on the trip, which seemed to help. Still, his fin would not heal and the infected scales became more swollen and discolored; a shock of white crystal growing from midnight blue. That last night, Jason did a huge water change, treated Alpha with some antibiotics for his sick fin, and then left him in a small bowl floating on the top of the tank. Water maintenance was Jason’s forte so the lack of scenery in the tank didn’t register with me until it was too late. Thinking that he had forgotten to put Alpha back before going to bed early, I thought I would help. Slowly, I tipped the edge of the bowl into the full tank so that the current wouldn’t surprise my little fishy man. I must have woken him up because he fought going into the larger body of water. In hindsight I sometimes wonder if that wasn’t a clue I should have noticed. Eventually my persistence won out and he slipped towards the bottom and disappeared into his little sleeping cave.
I didn’t stop to think that he didn’t have his resting spots; that he was barely able to swim to the top for his daily blood worm treats; that he needed to take little swallows of air to survive. I failed to realize that he had been left in a smaller bowl so that he would have less distance to travel to the surface. And consequently, my poor little Alpha likely died while suffering horribly; trapped on the bottom of his ten gallon world and unable to move far enough to meet his basic survival needs without enduring excruciating pain. Jason may not blame me – so he says – but I certainly blame myself. In the days since Alpha’s death, even the cat has seemed upset. He sits in his usual spot next to the tank looking for his blue brother and turns to me with a pitiful mewl and what I imagine to be accusation in his eyes. Of course, I’m anthropomorphizing more than a little and I doubt the cat’s grief over his lost friend will last as long as my own. We placed Alpha in a small wooden box and buried him in a friend’s backyard the next day. We didn’t speak during the funeral as neither of us is particularly religious and I doubt we could have spoken coherently, regardless. Our little Boobela was gone and would never greet us with a watery somersault again. I don’t think we’ll ever adopt another fish. They are wonderful pets, but their short life spans are too much for us to handle; we grow too attached too quickly and feel the loss too deeply to go through this over and over again. We miss our scaly son, but for us, he is the last of his kind.