The last few weeks have been rather painful as far as writing columns has gone.
I've got most of the damned A Hard Place murder puzzle worked out in my head. It just isn't gelling. I'm sure that if I took the time to stir it around, it would eventually coagulate like churned butter, but the usual life stuff is getting in the way.
Instead, this week I would like to tell you the story of our doomed fish.
My wife insisted that we keep fish in the house. She insisted by purchasing a small tank, all the related accoutrements, and a selection of fish ranging from zippy neon tetra to a prehistoric plecostomus. I grew up with a fish tank in the house, so a bit of nostalgia piled on top of the usual calming vibes of watching fish swim around an aquarium. As far as pets go, fish can be a relatively low maintenance experience: food, tank cleaning, water exchange, occasional filter replacement. Our bottom-feeding plecostomus was named Caligula. Everything went well for a year or so, but the fish were doomed.
A trip to Scotland, which necessitated a tank transfer to my in-laws' house, led to a massacre of our entire fish community. When we returned, my wife's parents regaled us with the grim account of fish found floating on a daily basis until, in a final, suicidal spasm, Caligula jumped out of the tank through a feeding hatch left open. I was bummed.
The empty, dry tank sat in our bonus room for a few years. I could say that we observed a period of mourning, but I'd be lying. One shouldn't mourn too much about a fish. We were just unmotivated to rebuild our piscine empire because we were already busy with raising our baby son.
One day, not too long ago, my wife decided that our son was old enough to appreciate fish. I came home from work to a full fish tank, our old, extremely noisy aerator buzzing, and a couple of fancy goldfish wobbling inefficiently as they finned their way through our plastic water plants and the arches of our aqueduct ruins.
One goldfish we named Münster because its orange sides and light belly reminded us of the rind and paste of the typical mild Münster you see in the States. The other goldfish we named Pepper Jack (Jack for short) because its pearlescent body and showy fins were speckled with bits of orange and black.
As Ozzie-and-Harriet as that sounds, it's had turned into more of a Gomez-and-Morticia exercise. Within a week, Jack's tail had rotted off and, despite emergency medication, was dead of massive ulceration. We bought another Jack soon after. Our son didn't miss a beat. We also had the local aquaculturist test our water to make sure we weren't stressing our fish too much.
Now Jack #2 is finless, but it's refusing to die. He's hanging in there.
What really disturbs me is what's happening to Münster. He's weathered the fin rot like a trooper. His fins haven't been touched, but some time ago, my wife noticed that his lips looked a little weird. Still, he was active and ate like a submerged pig, so I wasn't worried. Now, it looks like his head is shrinking, leaving his lower lip to jut out a quarter of an inch. Again, from a few feet away, he looks like your average goldfish. Up close, he looks like some sort of mutated Atomic carp.
When these two fish finally give up the ghost, I'm not sure we'll replace them immediately. I think the tank could use a thorough decontamination.
Pakeha