Today I Fed a Fish

I was never known for having luck with fish.

When I was a child, my mother dutifully bought me a goldfish in a perfect glass bowl. This was the ideal goldfish. I don’t remember what I named her, but I remember that she looked just like Cleo from Pinocchio and I pledged to find a way to take her on adventures with me.

Unfortunately, we never got that far, because my favorite thing to do with Cleo was feed her.  I was--and still am--very fond of snacks, and it seemed only fair that the fish should eat every time I ate. Soon, she was taking in somewhere between ten and twelve meals a day. Dozens of little pellets falling down from the sky. Gifts from her benevolent, enthusiastic, seven-year-old owner. She looked so happy every time it would rain nourishment. My mother warned me to ease up on the feedings, but I was confident that I knew best.

That was how I killed my first fish.

My mother let me try again, and I’d like to believe I got better at aquatic management, but the truth is, even when you do everything right for a fish, they can still (and often do) die on you. Chalk it up to living things not being designed to live in perfect glass bowls. Perhaps eventually we would have tried buying a larger tank or doing some research on things like acidity levels and underwater plants, but by then, I had killed half a dozen poor creatures, and my mother decided that pets just weren’t for me.

From then on, anytime I’d walk past a pet store and see the rows of fish tanks with multicolored fins and tails swimming about, I’d feel a pang of guilt. I was a fox walking by the henhouse. Adopting another fish would mean certain death for it. Even if I could have forgotten my miserable early track record, my family was only too happy to remind me. The Goldfish Year was brought up anytime there was silence at the family dinner table or a holiday needed a jolt of laughter. Like most anecdotes, the story grew beyond the truth. By the time I was in my early twenties, legend had it that I had killed hundreds of goldfish. The pipes stopped working because they were clogged with the bodies of his victims. I took it all in stride, but secretly, I thought about trying again.

In my late thirties, I began a work-from-home job. I thought about how I was going to decorate my home office. I wanted it to be sleek, but cozy. Like Devil Wears Prada meets The House at Pooh Corner. I found myself considering…a fish tank. Something small, and manageable, but more accommodating to a fish than the glass bowl that may have seemed aesthetically flawless, but probably felt like a prison to my little Cleo lookalike.

It was as if the pet store knew exactly what I wanted, because they offered an entire line of fish tanks meant for home offices. Throwing financial caution to the wind, I threw down my credit card and purchased the equivalent of a fishy Versailles. I wanted to do it right this time. Like a divorcee trying for love again in later life, I was determined that this would be the one that stuck. That’s why I got everything set up first--tank, thermometer, plants, small caves, pebbles, a tiny scuba diver, lighting, filters, heaters, a sound system, a recliner, three streaming service subscriptions, a minibar, and a breakfast nook in case my fish wanted to enjoy their omelets while looking out at the herb garden I’d paid an extra $59.99 for (with a rebate).

The final step was the most exciting. I was going to buy my fish. I gave it a great amount of thought and reflection, and ultimately settled on buying the prettiest one in the store. It was a beta, and I knew that meant it would have to live alone in the glass mansion I’d built for it. That was fine with me. I wanted it to have plenty of room. If it didn’t need friends, then that was fine with me. I would be its friend. Every morning, I would log into work and greet the little guy. He would defy the odds when it came to lifespan. Most beta fish live two to five years, but mine would go much further. After all, most people probably don’t set their fish up with a tiny jacuzzi and an exercise bike. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Little Oliver outlived me.

He lasted a week.

I was so confused. I had done everything right. I was checking the temperature. I was monitoring the filter. Oliver barely got a chance to use the breakfast nook. What had happened?

“That’s the thing about fish,” the salesman at the pet store told me when I went back in to inquire about where I went wrong, “They can just die. It happens.”

My disappointment was compounded by the fact that I had told my family about my intentions to become a fish owner again. They were delighted. Now, their favorite comedy was about to be rebooted. The Fish Murderer was back. I had gleefully informed them that this time would be different. This time I would be the St. Francis of Fish. I’d start with one and then adopt more. One day I’d end up with one of those floor-to-ceiling tanks you’d see in an 80’s movie, usually in the house of a drug dealer or a Hollywood screenwriter.

I wondered if I could hide the fact that my attempt at redemption had failed. That hope was quickly dashed when my brother popped by for a visit and asked to see the newest addition to my home. It only took one glance at the tank for him to realize that it was empty, and that my bad luck had struck again. Before I could stop him, he’d messaged the family group chat, and soon, there were memes of Nemo crying and photos of orcas with their eyes crossed out being shared and commented on for hours. I thought about skipping Thanksgiving that year.

Instead, I took the salesman’s words to heart. Fish sometimes die. That makes sense. I simply had to find one that wouldn’t. If I had gotten unlucky, then it stood to reason I could get lucky as well. I went back to the pet store and adopted a (slightly less) pretty fish that I named Alice.

She lasted two weeks.

Still, I was heartened. Two weeks was longer than a week. That was an improvement. Alice’s successor lasted three months. That might not seem like a long time when the average life is meant to be around three years, but everything is relative when you have a reputation like mine.

My upright attitude was only briefly shaken up when the fish that replaced Alice died not only suddenly, but on a particularly bad day for bad luck. That fish was named Alice II (I was running out of names) and she lasted only five weeks and died on the day I was laid off from my job.

This felt like some kind of sign. I received my termination phone call as I was walking into my office to see Alice II lifelessly floating past the tiny scuba diver. It was my first time losing a job, but it was not my first time dealing with the death of a fish. The obvious choice would have been to focus solely on finding a new job as soon as possible and forget about throwing anymore money down the drain. Any point I was trying to prove by keeping a fish alive was moot. Not everyone was meant to keep animals. If I had been responsible for the demise of anything bigger, I probably would have had the ASPCA busting down my door.

Despite having made up my mind to never love (a fish) again, I suddenly had so much time on my hands. It seemed silly not to fill it with…something.

So, I made myself a deal. I would go adopt one last fish. If it died, that would be it. I would sell the Tudor Aquarium to someone on Facebook marketplace who would probably use it to grow worms, and I’d move on with my life. I went to the pet store, waved to the staff who lovingly referred to me as Reaper, and walked over to the wall of betas--even in their tiny plastic container. The kind that chefs drink water out of, according to The Bear.

One fish at the edge of the wall caught my eye. He was all white and almost seemed to shimmer under the harsh fluorescent lighting. He was also rather large, and I wondered if that meant he’d have an easier time staying alive. Did fish have immune systems? And did larger fish have larger immune systems? I thought about Googling it, but there’s nothing more pitiful than Googling in a pet store. It’s like a surgeon leafing through a medical textbook while you’re already on the operating table.

I bought the fish, who I named Luna, and tried to ignore the tone in the cashier’s voice as she said “Good luuuuuuuck.” I wanted Luna to live, but part of me just wanted this grand experiment to be over, one way or another. It was a relief to know that no matter what happened, I was never going to be standing in front of that beta wall again trying to decide which one had the nicest eyes.

When you’ve decided that a fish you own is probably going to die, you find time passes rather quickly. I’m sure job-hunting also pulled focus from how Luna was doing in a tank surely haunted by several other ghost fishes. It wasn’t until I landed a new job that I realized Luna had now been living with me for six months and still seemed…rather healthy.

Perhaps a fish is something like a watched pot. It only lives if you ease up on it a bit. Maybe all that endless attention and fretting about it was somehow transferring stress over to my poor, deceased chums.

That’s why this week, when I felt my stress levels bubbling up again, I was nervous that somehow it would end up costing Luna his life. Alie II had left me on a day when I didn’t need another tragedy. Would Luna do the same? Were fish somehow attuned to the world-at-large? Were their little bodies so fragile that a shift in society could send them belly up? Is that what a fish kill was?  (Again, I would Google it, but the answer would probably depress me.)

Rather than dwell on all that, I simply continued to wake up each morning and feed my fish. Three small pellets and nothing more. I’d turn on the lights that illuminate his tank and watch as he began to flitter around the cave and the scuba diver and the miniature bidet I bought him for his eight-month birthday. At night, I’d turn off the main lights, and say “Goodnight, Luna” and he’d stare at me through the glass as though sending me appreciation for giving him his space throughout the day. When I told my family that the final fishI adopted was still swimming, I could sense the shock ricochet through the group chat. Then, hearts began appearing over my message. They were happy for my small victory. These days, it seems like those are the only kinds of victories we get.

Perhaps a bigger victory will arrive next month when Luna turns a year old. Actually, he might already be that old, but I’m counting from the day I got him. I won’t be conceited enough to suggest that that was when his life started, but it’s when mine began moving in a different direction. A better one? Who’s to say? I used to be the guy who murders fish, and now I simply…have a fish. Everyday, no matter how I’m feeling, I wake up with a purpose. Something depends on me for its existence. It’s a daily reminder to get out of bed and start the day. No wonder Mr. Rogers made such a big deal out of it.

As for how Luna feels about his unlikely survival, that’s the brilliant thing. He might not have any idea how lucky he is to be a year old.

It’s still nowhere near an average life, but swimming in the right direction