Killer: the True Story of a Death-Defying Fish
And why I don’t ever want another pet fish
Fish aren’t normally rescue animals, but this one was. He was a betta fish, mostly blue, no different from any other betta. My nephew had just moved out on his own and was convinced he needed a pet fish. He bought the betta from Petco. He named it Killer.
And then he realized that fish ownership isn’t whatever he thought it was going to be. He told his mom he was going to flush the fish.
She passed that along to me, and I volunteered to take it. (So you know, my nephew is a better person now and would — probably — not flush a live fish these days. But back then, he was a miscreant.)
That’s how a woman with a house full of cats ended up with a pet fish. I fixed up his habitat with colorful rocks, a couple of fake plants, and a sunken pirate ship. Killer’s tank was the envy of all the other fish…if there had been other fish around to see it. At first, his tank was on my kitchen counter.
Then the cats discovered him.
The first sign of trouble was when the Muffin Man (a young cat back then) learned how to open the lid. He didn’t want the fish — he wanted the fake plants. He kept stealing them. One day, I caught him in the act, fake plant in his mouth as he crept across the counter. I ended up using duct tape to secure the lid.
And then came the first assassination attempt. I came home to find the tank on its side, water all over the counter, and Killer lying still next to the tank. I was certain he was dead, but then my roommate picked him up — and he flopped in her hand. I didn’t have time to make up fresh water, and I hadn’t yet figured out that I needed to keep spare bottles of betta water on hand at all times. I filled his tank with tap water and threw him in.
He lived.
The tank was knocked over one more time before I got smart and moved it to the top of the refrigerator. My cats could have jumped up there, of course, as the top of the refrigerator is a favorite place for many cats, but none of them had ever even tried to get up there. I moved the fish to the top of the refrigerator, and as far as the cats were concerned, he was gone.
The rest of his life — which lasted about two years — were pretty quiet. He swam. I dropped food in. He peered out at the world. I talked to him. That’s really the most a fish can hope for, I guess. Eventually he died, quietly and without drama, the way we all hope to go someday. I didn’t flush him. I know that’s the traditional send off for a fish, but it seems disrespectful. I guess the idea is that fish don’t want to return to the earth; they want a burial at sea — but if your pipes are taking fish to the sea, you’ve got something weird going on with your plumbing.
I returned him to the earth. I didn’t actually dig a grave — I buried him under a cairn of bright pink aquarium rocks. It seemed more dignified than a burial at sewer.
