I Could Not Kill My Fish

He was just little guy swimming around and doing his thing. All it took was a dash of neglect to infect my little fishy friend, and he caught the fin rot. He came to me that way. When my mother abandoned her turtles with me, a few days later she showed up with these goddamn fish.

A boy fish and a girl fish, though, they were both boy fish. Two Siamese fighting fishies, ferocious little bettas. One was more blue, the other more pink so my heinous heteronormative mind assigned the blue one as “him/he” and the pink one as “her/she.” Shame on me.

I will just say I was too busy curing these sick fishies to break barriers. She healed up quickly. She was spunky from the first water change, the poor thing. Her name is Happy now. She is happy now.

He was happier, for sure. After acquiring late night red eyes from bright computer screens studying betta sickness varieties, I learned they needed way more space. They needed heat. Bettas are not little bowl hosts of the most boring circus show. Please remember that.

I comfort my selfish self with knowing he was happier at least for a bit before his rot receded more stealing that glorious fin of his. I tried all the suggestions: many water changes, heat and salt, and then went through a few different medications.

For five weeks we battled what was consuming him. The past five days I knew what I had to do, but I could not do it. His energy had depleted. No more happy bubbles were skimming the top of the water. The past five days he laid gasping at the bottom of his bowl, his “hospital tank.” I put an oxygen pump in there, kept him warm, and made sure to scoot the brine shrimp, his last couple of meals close enough to his mouth to effortlessly nibble. What a joke, though. What a heartless bitch.

When I would go to do it, my movement would make him dart around the tank, zig zags of will still within him, that’s what I told myself. He still had the will to live. It was not the time for the giving of permanent mercy.

But it was. I should have done it. Instead, he was miserable because I am a selfish creature. I could not bear to kill my fish so I let my fishy suffer.

In the event of a zombie apocalypse, somehow I know I could shoot my boyfriend between the eyes if it came down to it … but what about my cats? My turtles? Would I let them starve to death because I could not feed them a tricky supplemented supper that would put them in forever sleep?

I would not want pets in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Because they are not pets. They are my innocent and loyal little friends whom I love so much. And yet I could put a bullet between the eyes of my human friends, as quickly as my boyfriend if I *had* to. I don’t know why I am so sure, but I am surely not quite right for knowing I am correct in my hypothetical assessment.

I could not kill my fish, and I had the nerve to cry when he died the slow death, taking that last breath. It didn’t have to be so bad for him, his end of life. I should have swiftly eliminated that suffering, but I didn’t. I feel it is the equivalent of watching an animal cry on the side of the road after being hit by a car and doing nothing.

It’s far too easy to ignore what you cannot hear, and that is terribly unfortunate. Often times it is the silence that needs to make it to your ears with it’s powerful, wordless message. Animals cannot tell us what is wrong so we have to pay attention. Their whimpers are clues, but what about the little fishes that make no sounds at all? We really must try harder to be in tune with the quiet presence of the silent present.

And how the fuck do we do that? Pipe the fuck up and tell me. I feel like shit over this. And now I have visions of crying animals on the side of the road. Thanks, bitch. You idiot.