The Sad Life of a Fish

I feel sorry for my fish. We have had fish for the last five years, ever since our neighbors gave us a fish tank they didn't want anymore. One of the first fish we got was a black molly that had babies the first day we had her. Only one of the babies survived to adulthood, the others getting stuck in the filter or being eaten by the other bigger fish in the tank. Over the years we've had mollies, guppies, zebra danios, neon tetras, catfish, snails and a frog. We've had fish in stripes, solids and with spots. We've had fish in almost every color. When they died (after a couple weeks or a couple years) I'd scoop them out and eventually replace them with something new. I've cleaned out their tank about every other week for years, fed them every day with fish flakes or freeze dried blood worms, and spent a lot of time watching them, counting them, and searching for the hiding ones amongst the big rocks and plants. They don't demand attention. They don't remind me to feed them, although they always swarm to the top right corner when I open the lid--they know that food is coming. I'm not allergic to them, and they never get in my face or climb on my lap when I'm trying to read. They don't make loud noises or dig up my carpet. They are peaceful. They are relaxing. I like having fish.

 

About four months ago we acquired four cats. That must have been a terrible day for the fish. Suddenly they had predators stalking them outside the limited confines of their 29 gallon tank. Ishmael (the big black cat) decided the top of the tank was a good place to sit--whether because it is close to the flitting food, or because the light in the top is warm I don't know. All four cats spend hours sitting next to the tank watching the fish swim around, occasionally pawing at the sides of the tank when the fish appear to be close. What is entertainment for the cats on the outside must be terror for the poor fish inside.

Once in a while the barrier between the predator and the prey is removed: I open the lid of the tank to change the water and vacuum the gravel on the bottom. For about half an hour, the cats search for an opportunity to get past me and catch an elusive snack. While I am there, siphoning out the water, I can shoo the cats away when they come too close (standing with their paws on the top edge of the tank, occasionally dabbing a paw into the water.) Unfortunately, when the bucket is full, I have to leave the scene to take the water to the sink to dump it. Later I have to refill the bucket with fresh water, and I need to keep an eye on the refilling bucket to ensure it doesn't overflow and add chemicals to the water to make it safe for the fish. This is the opportunity the cats have been waiting for: unsupervised access to the snack bucket. Today I was refilling the bucket in the kitchen when I heard a splash mixed with a crash. I dashed into the living room to see a black cat streak away from the scene of the crime, water in the tank sloshing, and water dripping down the front of the tank and the dresser the tank stands on. I counted the fish. Thankfully none were missing. Eventually the water stopped splashing, my heart rate returned to normal, and I hope the fishes' heart rates did too. The cat's mission either failed or was aborted.

We only have four fish at the moment. I think the stress of their situation has shortened their life spans drastically, and they are dying off faster (all bodies accounted for except for the frog which just disappeared), and I haven't been replacing them. A couple of the remaining fish are schooling fish which means that there should be at least three of them. Now there are only two. I am left with the quandry: would it be better to buy more fish so the schooling fish can have comfort in their school, or to just let the remaining fish die off as quickly as possible to put them out of their misery? If I'd had the cats first I never would have bought fish. It would have been bringing innocent creatures home deliberately to reside in a torture chamber.