AN AQUATIC GREEK TRAGEDY
Henson, my pet fish, was a pretty fish with a kind disposition. He was with me through several relationships, four moves, and at least two presidents. For a beta fish, he already had lived longer than I expected and for that, I was grateful.
Then, one day, I was cleaning his bowl when I noticed an excessive amount of bubbles at the top of his tank. I mentioned this to Mr. Sanchez at the pet shop where I bought Henson’s food, and he explained that betas do this when they want to mate (the bubbles serve as a nest of sorts to fish eggs). Henson had apparently grown weary of my platonic friendship and longed for some action. I had
been told that betas didn’t get along but Mr. Sanchez explained that as long as the female fish wanted to mate as well, there shouldn’t be a problem.
“What if she doesn’t?” I asked.
“Then the male fish will kill her.” He answered.
That seemed rather harsh but I couldn’t help but think of the infamous quote from the movie STEEL MAGNOLIAS. Julia Roberts’s character says to Sally Field, “I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” I decided to risk it.
Mr. Sanchez only had one female beta that was, in his words, “very young”. I hesitated but again, felt it was worth the risk. Taking into account her age and circumstance, I thought the name ‘Lolita’ was a perfect fit. I brought her home and immediately put her into the bowl with Henson.
Henson was thrilled. He frantically swam back and forth as she hid behind a rock. Friends and family called and asked for updates as if it was a soap opera.
“Does she seem interested?”
“Has she come out behind the rock?”
”Has he made his move yet?”
When I explained the progress was slow, may gave suggestions on how to assist in the mating process. My father went so far as to recommended pouring red wine in the tank and putting on some Barry White.
The relationship was at a complete standstill. Then one day - a day that will live in infamy - I noticed that Lolita was missing. No note, no nothing. I stared at the fish bowl in disbelief looking for any trace of her. I put my hand in the tank and ran my fingers through the pebbles
at the bottom trying to find any trace of her. I then looked around the bowl, both inside and out to see if she had somehow managed to crawl out and escape the lecherous older male fish. Over and over again, I kept saying, “Where is she? Where there hell did she go?” I found nothing.
Then I looked at Henson. I never thought a fish could lie down, but there he was, almost passed out on the bottom of the tank. He looked bloated and exhausted. I studied him for a moment. He looked like Elvis - the dying years. The rhinestone Elvis. The fried peanut butter and banana sandwich eating Elvis. It was then when it hit me: He didn’t kill her. He ate her. He ate Lolita.
Henson, who survived so much, now struggled to digest a fish he once had hoped to score with. The situation was desperate as he laid on the rocks clinging to life. What went wrong? Had I made a terrible mistake? Was Lolita just a cold fish or was Henson an obsessed stalker? How did this become a Greek aquatic tragedy? More than that, is it really fair to ingest someone simply because they won’t put out?
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Henson died. It took me two days to figure that out as he was so stuffed that he didn’t even float to the top of the water.
There should be some sort of moral to all this. “You always eat the ones you love.” is just too obvious, and of course there is always, “It’s better to have loved once than not to have loved at all.” However, if I had to share what I learned from this experience, frankly, it would be to stay the hell out of your fish’s personal life.
