Of Fins and Friends

Ryland wanted a fish for Christmas. And maybe a hermit crab that lives underwater.

I was game because, as pets go, fish are pretty low maintenance. And they’re likely to get along with the dogs. Siamese fighting fish, or bettas, are cheap, pretty, readily available, live in fresh water at room temperature, and eat a couple of grains of food per day. Plus, they come in lots of colors and can’t be ridden, which makes them the perfect pet for a 5-year-old boy.

I waited a little too long and PetSmart was sold out of the $17 tank I intended to buy to house the $7 fish. I bought a bigger, better-looking one that came with a light and little pump and filter, and held 4½ gallons of water. I bought two bags of black gravel and soon caught myself decorating; a couple of live plants and a tall ceramic thing that looked like the remains of a tree for the fish to swim through. I didn’t want Ryland’s new pet to get bored, being that he was going to live alone and all.

The young, presumably knowledgeable woman at PetSmart helped me select water conditioner and a jar of food. She gave me feeding instructions, water-changing instructions and warned me that Siamese fighting fish sometimes jump out of the aquarium. Visions of child trauma danced in my head.

“It’s OK,” she said. “They can breathe air for a little while. If he jumps out you just put him back in the tank.”

Well, that was a relief. Sort of. I went to pick a fish that looked like a nonjumper.

By the time I got to the cash register, the $7 fish and $17 tank had added up to $120, but it was palatial for a little fish that, in the wild, would spend its whole life in a rice paddy puddle. I figured the fish would be pretty darn happy. The young knowledgeable woman told me they live about two years. Wikipedia claims seven. I went to bed on Christmas Eve hoping he would still be swimming in the morning.

To my relief, he was. And when Ryland found the tank with a red ribbon around it and the Siamese fighting fish swimming about he was so excited he literally squealed with glee.

But that was then. Last week, it became clear that the fish wasn’t well. Soon he expired, having enjoyed our company for three months, two weeks and three days. It was Ryland’s first conscious experience with death, so we planned a funeral, put the fish in a Freddy’s hamburger carton, and laid him to rest in the backyard. Once the grave had been filled, I read the eulogy Ryland had dictated just before the service:

“I liked Spike. He was fun to play with. I liked to feed him. I loved him a lot. He had a really cute face. His fin was spiky, that’s why I named him Spike. He was a good fish and when I fed him, he said, ‘I’m happy when Ryland feeds me.’ He was happy in his fish tank. I liked banging on the glass and he did too. He was a great fish.”

I might have teared up a little.

I posted that on Facebook and it drew a plethora of likes and comments.

“Amen,” said Kurt Gwartney.

“Excellent eulogy,” said Barbara Grzincic.

And Lucy Fritts said it just right: “A eulogy by someone who knew and loved the departed – we should all hope for something as heartfelt.”

Yes, I thought. We should all hope for that.