A Fish Story - in two parts

The following is a true story, edited for the general public.

Two years ago, I returned from my semester in Germany. Since I live so close to Chicago, I decided to make a couple of visits to Moody before the semester’s end. The last of these visits was on the day of Commencement, for which I worked as an usher. After the ceremony, I made my way back to the floor to see if anyone was still there. Only Spencer remained, because he was staying for a couple weeks longer. Once I finished helping him move his things to his temporary room, he realized that he yet had one item that he could not bring with him to the summer camp in Alaska.

“Hey,” he hesitated, “do you think you could take care of my fish for the summer?”

My first thought? The poor Betta wasn’t going to live to August.

“Sure,” I agreed. I took the cubic fish bowl in hand and cursed my willing spirit.

When I got the thing home, I promptly made efforts to research proper Betta care. I wanted to do everything I could to return the fish to its owner – alive.

Towards that end, I purchased a snail to keep the Betta (now named “Fisch”) company. I named the snail “Pat” (what else should I name something with an indiscernible gender?), and the two got along so well that I frequently saw them snuggling. That’s right: snuggling.

Of course, even with the appropriately frequent water changes, Fisch eventually died. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t eager to tell Spencer. In any event, I was now left with a solitary snail. Wanting to give the orange lump some company, I made a trip to the pet store. After an agonizing half hour, I finally decided on an aquatic frog. It should at least be more interesting than a goldfish.

Interesting it was, if only for about 12 hours. In a moment of short-sightedness, I not only left the frog and snail in an easily escaped glass cube, but I also gave the frog a platform of spinach from which to jump. I just hope one of the dogs had a good snack.

24 hours past the death of Fisch, and I was back where I started with lonely Pat. I realize that Pat probably couldn’t have cared less about the situation if he’d had the capacity for emotion, but I wasn’t satsfied to leave a fish bowl empty save an androgenous gastropod. Another trip to the pet store was in order, and I obsessed over the most interesting and affordable water pets possible. After three visits to two stores and a Starbucks, I came home with a crab, two goldfish, a rock formation, a cuttlefish bone, a 2.5 gallon tank, a cheap filter, far too much gravel, and a caffeine high for the ages.

After a day of trying to teach Mike (the crab) to climb up the rock (“He’ll climb up anything to get the air he needs,” the store attendant told me), I gave up and put him in his own tank with a bit of water and a slope of gravel. Further online research then told me that this was a saltwater crab, despite what the pet stores say. As such, he’d die after 3 months in fresh water.

Back to the pet store.

The next month, after a defunct Betta, an AWOL frog, a drowning crab, and finally an expired snail, I was left with two goldfish. The only survivors of the drama, naturally, were the 13¢ throwaway goldfish.

A Fish Story: Part II

Nine months past, and Roger and Kissee, the valiant goldfish, are thriving. My mom has been gracious enough to care for them at home in my absence so that I wouldn’t have to bother with a fish tank while at school.

Spring of 2009 has been the Semester of Fish here on Culby 3. Many of the guys on the floor went absolutely bonkers over buying fish, and even spread some of the hysteria over to our sisters on 10 North.

Throughout the craze, I stood my ground, refusing to take part by buying fish of my own. Then, one day at work, I got an e-mail from a coworker. She had an old 10 gallon tank that she wanted to get rid of, so she offered it for free. In an impulsive flash, I saw the now very large Roger and Kissee frenetically dashing around their cramped 2.5 gallon quarters, desperate for more room to grow. If they were in a larger tank, I could have a flamboyant Betta enjoying the unusually open space of a 2.5 gallon tank all to himself. Then I imagined both of these tanks sitting in my dorm room.

“I’ll take it!” I responded to the e-mail about 10 seconds after receiving it.

Less than 48 hours later, tank in hand, I joined my coworker on a trip to Old Town Aquarium. It’s a fantastically well-appointed fish store with knowledgable and caring staff, something I’d never seen before. After about an hour of acquiring her fish and deciding on what I wanted to buy, I returned to campus with an orange and blue Betta, soon to be named Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Grant Welch also owned a Betta (called Poisson at my insistence), and he suddenly became desperate to see how it would fare in a fight with a goldfish. He and my roommate got so excited about the prospect of a fight that I reluctantly drove them to PetSmart. Grant and I each purchased a 13¢ goldfish, one for each of our Bettas. Quite logically, his goldfish was named Num Num. Much less logically, mine was dubbed Mr. T. I pited the fool.

After a much less-than-thrilling spar between Num Num and Poisson, we decided to feed Num Num to the pirrhana on 17. That was also less-than-thrilling because that viscious thing hasn’t the greatest appetite. My ensuing pity for Mr. T and my fear of Mr. Darcy’s potential injury led me to keep the two separated, thus backing out of the original plan entirely. Besides, I knew there were two goldfish back home who would be thrilled to make their abode in a 10 gallon tank with a new friend.

As it stood one year ago, I had fully joined in the fish craze. Kissee, Roger, and Mr. T gladly cohabitated above my desk, and Mr. Darcy enjoyed his view atop the bookshelves. All I needed was a hoard of cats, and I’d have been fully certifiable.