I went through a nesting stage while pregnant with Secret Lulu. I like to get a head start on these things, so instead of waiting for the traditional just-before-the-baby-comes urge to line the nest with feathers, at about five-weeks-along I commemorated the tadpole stage by buying fish from the pet store down the road.
I bought bettas. I'd heard they were hard to kill. I had the presence of mind to realize that was an essential requirement, perhaps the only true requirement, of any pet I might own.
In hindsight, I should have gotten something less hearty. By the end of the first week, I wanted them dead.
Now a lot of you realize, but maybe some of you don't, that bettas are a swim-solo kind of fish. They don't like company. So the two boy bettas I got were housed in their own vases. They didn't move a lot. They weren't the peacefully swimming-to-and-fro fish I had imagined. I was disappointed. I came to the conclusion that what I really wanted was a tank with multiples. I went back to the pet store. The sweet, misinformed sales lass there informed me that girl bettas, being less agressive, were more amenable to communal living
Since I'd already done the reading on bettas, I bought a tank.
Now, unfortunately the pet store didn't sell girl bettas, but that helpful lass knew where to find them locally. Albeit at a store I would not normally shop. Which is how I ended up wandering the aisles of my local Wal-Mart.
As I have always known deep in my heart, I didn't belong there.
Going there was a mistake. But I wanted the total fish tank experience. I wanted to look over and see a peaceful, zenlike school of lovely colors all living in harmony.
I blame the hormones.
Anyway. I bought a fish tank. I figured caring for these fish would be good practice for caring for a tiny human. I thought the routine of daily feeding and weekly tank cleaning would ease me in to the baser requirements of parenting. I had nothing but the best of intentions.
I'm not sure that worked out.
I set the boy bettas discreetly out of my line of vision and parked the colony of three girls on my desk. They swam to and fro. Albeit, in a zippier manner than I had hoped. Actually, zippy isn't really the word. They were frantic. They chased each other in a way that was not unlike the run-around-the-kitchen-table and lock-myself-in-the-bathroom-and-hold-the-lock jamboree that my brother and I had preferred when in grade school. It was stressful. For the first time in my life, I realized that our mother really should loathe us after all the referee'ing we'd whined her into.
Sweet Pete, I hated those fish.
I mean, really, people. They would not only chase each other relentlessly but they bit each other, too. Again, a little like the younger versions of me and my brother. Still. They bit and, you may not know this about bettas but, they did not let go. Because for bettas the only way to end a bite is to swallow the bitten bit.
They are truly evil, terrible, hateful fish.
I could not rest. I could not concentrate. I could not take a full and complete breath without seeing those fish darting about like meth-addled harpies. Only I wish they were meth-addled. Because, perhaps, then they would have cleaned their own tank.
Little known fact about bettas: the smell of their food and water makes my pregnant self heave.
I had to purposefully hyperventilate before entering the hall to my office. I had to pick up their food with tweezers so as not to get the smell permanently stuck on my hands. I had to exhale all the air that might have drifted into my nose forcefully out as I ran down the hall in a desperate attempt to access fresh air.
Still, the smell got to me.
I really hated those fish.
But what could I do? I'd bought them. I was responsible for them. I had no real choice. Not if I wanted to count myself among decent people.
I started to question the usefulness of being a decent person if it meant living with those machiavellian fish. I mean, how much taunting is a person expected to take before they crack?
Oh, yes. Those fish taunted me, people. Make no mistake.
So there I was, nauseatedly pregnant and harried by the fish fiasco. I gave some of the fish to my housekeeper. Both boys and the most aggressive--perhaps alpha betta--female. Because she made the mistake of admiring them. I have no idea how she got those sloshing vases home intact. But she gave me reports on the fishes' health and well-being for months, as though they were children I used to care for.
Now I just had two fish: the completely passive female and the--forgive me, betta betta--female. Except that Little Miss Fish decided to indulge delusions of grandeur. She got all tough and bite-y, determined to establish dominance now that she was lacking in true competition from the former Queen B(etta).
I really had nothing but disdain for that little priss of a fish. I mean, really, as if she would have pulled that mess if the real alpha betta had been around. Puh-leese.
But the point is, the drama continued. I was at my wits end. Really, people. There is no reasoning with fish. It just can't be done. And I'm not just saying that.
I really tried.
So I started thinking about "humane options." Don't look at me like that! How dare you judge me. You don't know what it was like. I mean, the housekeeper was already at the fish saturation point. There were no other takers. And I had my own baby to think about. How could I even consider bringing Secret Lulu into a world filled with such violence?
Not to mention, I hated cleaning the tank.
At first I simply stared at the fish tank willing betta betta to just die. Just go ahead and give up the every-loving pea-sized ghost as it were. She wouldn't do it. She was fueled by spite and living on the fumes of vengeance. You should have seen her swooshing around, bandying her tiny bite-torn fins.
I was convinced that if it were just me and the one gentle betta, we could find a way to get along. We could get past the smell of the food, the drudgery of tank sludge. I just knew it. But that betta betta was standing in our way, keeping us from a happier, more peaceful existence.
I considered ice water. Supposedly, it's quick.
In the meantime, the gentle betta was showing signs of despair. She tried to hide but every once in a while she had to surface for food. I could see it in her little bubbles. The struggle was becoming too much. She was losing the will to live.
I had to act.
I don't remember what I did. But one day there was just me and gentle betta and that was all. It would have been perfect if only gentle betta would swim to and fro. Unfortunately, hiding had become her go-to position. She was afraid of her own reflection.
Literally, she would hide from her own reflection.
Some things a fish just can't come back from. Life teaches us that we have to accept that. Railing against the injustice helps no one, accomplishes nothing.
I cared for that gentle, reflection-shy betta until she died. They I flushed her down the toilet. Once the wave of revulsion passed--after all, I'd be hanging my naked tushy over the place of gentle betta's passing before too long--perhaps within the minute since I was nearing the end of my pregnancy--I felt nothing but relief.
Gentle betta was not meant for this world. I like to think she went to a better place. Even though I'm pretty sure the city gray-water recycling station isn't nearly as cute as my office.
There have been other fish since then. All bettas. Each has come in its turn and then gone. Each has left nothing but relief in its passing.
There was the betta that Secret Lulu fed pepper. There was the boy betta who was forced to live nearly four years as a female until he finally died of a combination of heartbreak and advanced age. There was the ill-gotten fish that Pandora landed me with when she stole my most treasured Sephora color kit and crushed my dreams.
All gone. All dead. None truly missed.
Some people are meant to love pets. Others are meant to endure fish.
I try not to blame myself. Perhaps the fish were really awful in a past life. Perhaps, they deserved me. Perhaps not. But at the end of the day, I sleep uneasy.
It has been my lifelong ambition to count myself among decent people. And yet, one must consider the fish.
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