I went to feed the new betta tonight and I couldn’t find him in the tank. I fully admit that I cursed like a sailor as I peered around the tank (at least the kids weren’t around to hear it.)
Then, I spotted him- chilling in the little filter: you know, the little box that hangs off the back of the tank? How the HECK did he get in there? The only thing I can possibly fathom is that he got sucked up the tube that pulls water into the filter. He seems like he would be too big for it, but apparently I was wrong. He went all Augustus Gloop on me.
He looked at me, abashed, floating listlessly in his one inch of space. I dumped him back in the tank and breathed a sigh of relief, at least for now. At least this time I figured it out before he kicked the bucket.
Is life in our household really all that bad? Free worms, regular water changes, the cat leaves you alone. Really, life is good as a V betta. I seem to keep getting the emo fish who can’t wait to escape the horribleness of my home.
When I took Koa into the specialty hospital a couple of weeks ago, I noticed they had a small betta tank, just a bowl, actually, in the exam room. When I relayed my tale of woe, the vet chivalrously offered the betta to me, which I thought was very kind. “He’s been here for 5 years,” he told me.
5 YEARS. 5 years of being subjected to daily scrutiny from strange cats, dogs, and children, some of whom are possibly radioactive, and the fish is fine. I have a fish for 5 weeks and he manages to get himself dead every time. I told him the fish was probably much safer there than in my home, which is some Bermuda Triangle vortex of fish doom, and obviously I was correct in that assessment.
I hadn’t actually gotten around to naming the fish- paranoia, perhaps, or simply playing the odds- but I think Augustus is quite fitting. Or perhaps Lazarus. Or Lucky, in the ironic sense. Augustus Lazarus Lucky the Great. I like it.