Hi, my name is Samantha and I’m a fish killer.
There, I said it. On the internet. It’s out there for the whole world to know. I kill fish. More specifically, I kill dearly beloved family pet fish. The kind you can’t even eat, so I can’t even justify it. It’s true. I’m horrible.
It started with spring break vacation. I let the tank get a little out of hand – the water was low, something green was growing on the walls, and a brown plague had taken over the tube where the air stone resides. It was nasty to say the least – like a scene out of a little fishy horror movie.
Still, I could have saved it. I could have intervened, and yet did I? Of course not.
The water level kept getting lower, and the green stuff kept getting brighter. And then I noticed that the algae-eater (affectionately known as “Bubbles”) was laying on his side. On his side, people. You know there is a lot of algae in your tank when the fish who was put on this earth by God Himself to love algae has had enough. It was time for action.
I thought perhaps if I did a complete water change and treated the water with a little salt spa, that maybe he could still pull through. Maybe. So after dinner the other night I went to work. I placed each fish in his own little cup and went to work changing and scrubbing and treating and filling. In minutes the tank was sparkling and ready to be re-inhabited.
Bubbles was the first to move back in. I carefully poured him into the net and set him free in his newly cleaned room. He sank to the bottom, but stayed upright, so I was hopeful.
Next was Two Tales’ turn. I repeated the process of slowly pouring his water through the net to strain him out, but it didn’t go quite as well as it had with his roommate. In fact, when I got to the bottom of his cup, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. I checked the net. I checked the other cup I had used to catch the water. Nothing.
I checked the cat’s mouth. Still nothing.
Being the jump-to-conclusions-accuser that I am, I checked the cat’s bed. You guessed it – nothing. Where could this little guy have gone? Had he simply been rescued from this life Elijah-style? Aliens? What in the world?
That’s when something shiny caught my eye. On the carpet. I seriously don’t know how he got there, but somehow my straining technique had resulted in Two Tales being flung down to a golden Berber-y nightmare. I quickly scooped him up and – cover your eyes fish lovers – picked the cat hair off his tail, before swiftly placing him back in the tank.
The tank where he, too, sank to the bottom, right next to the motionless algae-eater. And, well, he looked a little like he shoulda had a V-8.
So, there you have it. Bubbles made it through the night, but expired some time the next day. Two Tales is still on life support, but the prognosis isn’t good. Apparently Berber is life-threatening to aquatic animals. Who knew?
But, as many of you know, this isn’t the first fish fatality to occur by my hand. No, there was Thiggy. And Diggy (or was it Ziggy? Enough of the children naming pets…). Oh, and Hayes. Who could forget Hayes? I’m sure it will be quite some time before my children forget the sight of his little fishy head falling off…
Ok. So I have another serious confession to make.
My name is Samantha, and I’m a serial fish killer.
The truth is a real bummer, you know that? And yet, I’m sure I’ll be off to the pet store next week to find yet another vict – uh, I mean pet.
Oh, someone’s gotta stop me…
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