Once,it was summer in Ann Arbor and I was heading down the street with a fish. I don't know why this scene popped into my head today, but it did.
First, the background. My then-boyfriend Evan was taking the LSAT, and to celebrate, I thought a goldfish was in order. Yeah, I don't know why, either. Apparently nothing says "I love you, future lawyer" like carp. Anyway, I took the bus to Meijer, bought the fish, and set up the fish's bowl in Evan's apartment. "What a lovely surprise this will be," I thought, smug in my creative gifting. Unfortunately, I was not well-versed in the art of fish maintenance, and I didn't know that tap water can kill fish. Poor Evan trudged home after finishing the test, only to be greeted by a lifeless fish floating belly-up, its tiny fins suspended in its watery grave.
Evan was nice about the whole thing; if I recall, he even took care of the toilet "funeral." I felt terrible, of course. Just awful. I decided to atone for my fishslaughter by buying him a new fish, which I'd planned to gently place in purified water. Ichthyic salvation!
You can read what happened, but the gist is that fish la deuxieme met its death in a sewer. It's funny on a can't-win-for-losing level, and part of me still laughs at how my attempts to be romantic frequently end in disaster. So it's not like I fail to see the dark humor in the fish debacle.
Even still, the death of Fishy 2 remains one of my biggest small horrors. I can almost feel the warm rain of that day. The scene plays through like a movie. I can see the fish hurled out of its bag, and I feel the panic of trying to grab it, trying to capture it, trying to keep it from dying. There is something acutely upsetting about seeing fish out of water. Their frenzied jumping and gasping, faster and faster, makes me panic and feel their helplessness. Maybe it's because even though their little fish-brains cannot philosophize, they fight death just as fervently as you or I would.
(This is why, after years of fishing with my father, child-me began to toss worms and cheese into the water instead of baiting a hook; that way, I could enjoy my dad's company and could see fish up close without guiltily watching them thrash about. A harbinger of my vegetarianism?)
Nothing more to say, really, except that I still feel bad when I think about the whole thing. It's not like I need to talk it out in therapy or anything, but my heart aches when I remember that flopping fish being pulled into the sewer. I tried so hard to save it. Is it ridiculous to have piscine empathy? Maybe. Probably. I mean, millions of people eat fish every day and they don't think twice about sending them to the sewer. Like I said, I don't know what spurred the return of this memory, but maybe tomorrow I will go feed some koi to balance things out.
Also, I tried to resist, but I love bad puns so much that I had to add that this story is totally off the hook. (Groan.)
First, the background. My then-boyfriend Evan was taking the LSAT, and to celebrate, I thought a goldfish was in order. Yeah, I don't know why, either. Apparently nothing says "I love you, future lawyer" like carp. Anyway, I took the bus to Meijer, bought the fish, and set up the fish's bowl in Evan's apartment. "What a lovely surprise this will be," I thought, smug in my creative gifting. Unfortunately, I was not well-versed in the art of fish maintenance, and I didn't know that tap water can kill fish. Poor Evan trudged home after finishing the test, only to be greeted by a lifeless fish floating belly-up, its tiny fins suspended in its watery grave.
Evan was nice about the whole thing; if I recall, he even took care of the toilet "funeral." I felt terrible, of course. Just awful. I decided to atone for my fishslaughter by buying him a new fish, which I'd planned to gently place in purified water. Ichthyic salvation!
You can read what happened, but the gist is that fish la deuxieme met its death in a sewer. It's funny on a can't-win-for-losing level, and part of me still laughs at how my attempts to be romantic frequently end in disaster. So it's not like I fail to see the dark humor in the fish debacle.
Even still, the death of Fishy 2 remains one of my biggest small horrors. I can almost feel the warm rain of that day. The scene plays through like a movie. I can see the fish hurled out of its bag, and I feel the panic of trying to grab it, trying to capture it, trying to keep it from dying. There is something acutely upsetting about seeing fish out of water. Their frenzied jumping and gasping, faster and faster, makes me panic and feel their helplessness. Maybe it's because even though their little fish-brains cannot philosophize, they fight death just as fervently as you or I would.
(This is why, after years of fishing with my father, child-me began to toss worms and cheese into the water instead of baiting a hook; that way, I could enjoy my dad's company and could see fish up close without guiltily watching them thrash about. A harbinger of my vegetarianism?)
Nothing more to say, really, except that I still feel bad when I think about the whole thing. It's not like I need to talk it out in therapy or anything, but my heart aches when I remember that flopping fish being pulled into the sewer. I tried so hard to save it. Is it ridiculous to have piscine empathy? Maybe. Probably. I mean, millions of people eat fish every day and they don't think twice about sending them to the sewer. Like I said, I don't know what spurred the return of this memory, but maybe tomorrow I will go feed some koi to balance things out.
Also, I tried to resist, but I love bad puns so much that I had to add that this story is totally off the hook. (Groan.)
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