“And there’s this tradition where you have to have a pet fish,” grumbled Girl when she became head of house at her boarding school. Girl was grumbling because she’s not especially a fish fan. But I am and I was delighted. My father was a world champion guppy breeder. Both Dick and I used to maintain our own tropical fish tanks. So getting daughter kitted out with an aquarium felt like a happy nostalgia trip.
That was five years ago, since when all bar one of the fish we bought for daughter’s aquarium have died. I did feel a bit sorry for the solitary molly left behind in the tank, which I’ve been feeding while Girl is away travelling. But the Fawn - as wives generally are, more ruthless and practical in these matters - told me I’d be an idiot to buy any more because we’d be stuck in a permanent cycle of unwanted fish ownership.
It was easy for Fawn to say that, though. She wasn’t the one who had to look at the lonely fish staring at her with its lonely fish eyes every time you fed it. That was my job, just as cleaning the tank has always been my job. She has always done the laundry (obvs). I have always taken charge of the children’s pets. This goes at least as far back as the days when I used to have to clear out the cage of the kid’s guinea pigs, Lily Scampers and Pickles Deathclaw.
Even though guinea pigs are, to all intents and purposes, just stupid, useless, edible rodents, you do become oddly attached to them when you’re in charge of looking after them. In fact, when the devil dog belonging to some kid from the nearby housing estate - this was when we were living in Sarf London - vaulted our garden wall and killed the guineas in front of me, it was about the only occasion in my adult life when I’ve almost cried. The only occasion when I actually cried was when a similar dog performed the same manoeuvre and killed our cat.
Anyway, it’s the same with fish. Sure a fish is just a fish is just a fish. But when you’re in sole charge of their environment - as opposed to say fishing for them or frying them - you become quite fond of them. Not only that but you become acutely aware of your moral responsibility towards their wellbeing.
So what to do about this lone molly? I ran through the options. 1. Squash it and put it quickly out of its misery. 2. Pop down to Pets At Home and get it some tank mates. 3. Find a new home for the fish. 4. Take the last fish back to the shop. 5. Ignore the problem and pretend it wasn’t happening.
I only included 3 and 4 because some of you will be naive enough to think of them as valid options. But they’re really not. 3. No one, anywhere, wants your second hand solitary fish. As for 4. I tried this once with a rabid biting hamster. “Your problem, now, mate” was the pet shop’s response. Not that I’m suggesting the molly was dangerous. But a pet shop is not going to be able, in any conscience, to resell a fish of indeterminate age or one that might be diseased.
If I’m perfectly honest, the most sensible and probably least cruel solution would have been 1. But somehow it felt wrong. As for 2, that was clearly a non-starter, a) because I don’t particularly like Pets At Home. Not only is it shockingly expensive but I loathe the way they insist on logging all your personal details before they sell you a fish, like they’re the Piscine Gestapo and they reserve the right to burst into your home any time of day and night to check whether your aquarium is clean, uncrowded and the right temperature. But also, clearly, it would get me a bollocking from the Fawn for being such a sentimental fool.
That left the ‘do nothing’ option 5, which is generally, in my experience, the most satisfying solution to most situations. At least it would be just so long as I could manage to persuade myself that the fish was perfectly happy on its own, or if not happy at least that it was going to cope well enough, and that anyway it was just a cold blooded pond creature so did it really matter that much either way?
When you’ve only one fish to feed you don’t really need to do many feedings. One feed every three days is more than enough, I’d say. But this only added to my guilt. “This fish is on his own for two days out of three with absolutely nothing to do but swim around his tank, maybe occasionally catching sight of the solitary shrimp. And the only excitement or even interest of his life happens on the third day when, for all of thirty seconds, I come to Girl’s empty bedroom to give him his feed. That’s it. That’s all. Those thirty seconds are the only things giving any meaning or variety to the fish’s life sentence in solitary confinement.”
Luckily, I had a holiday in Colombia booked, so that meant two whole weeks of not having to think about the fish. I just had to take care not to look too closely into any of the rivers I swam in, because Colombia is one of the places mollies live in the wild and had I seen a bunch of them en masse, hanging out in their big fishy gang and looking all healthy and content it might have been given me guilt flashbacks.
In my absence, Boy took charge of fish duties. Though he hates to admit it he has quite a lot in common with me because one of the first things he said when I got back was: “Do you ever worry about that fish?” I agreed, eagerly, that I did. We got talking, one guilt victim to another. “I think he might be depressed,” said Boy. “Me too. They do get depressed. Grandpa told me this when he had his fish house. Fish get moods, just like humans,” I said. “What’s really upsetting is the way when you come into the room he comes to see you. Like he’s THAT desperate for entertainment…”, said Boy.
So we hatched a plan. In the guise of getting more ludicrously expensive specialist pet food for our cat (whose breed’s special shaped mouth requires special shaped biscuits: or so the manufacturers ludicrously claim) we would go into Pets At Home and…
“Good news!”, we told Mum/Fawn when we got back from our shopping expedition. “We got more food for the cat.” “Oh, well done” said Fawn. “And also, by accident, we ended up getting some more fish. And some snails. The snails are really useful because they clean the tank, apparently, so that’s good isn’t it?”
The Fawn was much less cross than I thought she’d be. In fact, she actually seemed quite pleased. Boy and I hurried upstairs to introduce the new fish - at least one of which was female because it was evidently gravid - to their new home and their new friend. You’re supposed to do it gradually - put a bit of tank water in their bag, then leave the bag floating in the tank so the temperature reaches approximate equilibrium - but we couldn’t wait.
This is the point in the story where the bathos usually occurs. Either the two new fish gang up on the original and peck his fins off. Or the original gangsta fish, territorial, attacks the other two. Or they swim into different parts of the tank and ignore each other. Or the shock of the new arrivals proves too much for the old lag and the next we know he’s floating belly up at the top of his tank while the arrivistes nip at his corpse.
Amazingly, though, none of these disappointments transpired. On the contrary, the results exceded our wildest fantasies. Within moments, the three fish were cuddling up to one another like long lost friends. The old fish, insofar as it is possible to interpret fish behaviour, seemed genuinely delighted to have gained some company. His (or possibly her - I can’t be sure what sex he or she is, because it’s not like, if she’s a girl, she has had any opportunities to get pregnant) movements have become more animated; he’s much less mopey and more interested when we pay him his visits. The fish tank that we associated with misery and guilt has become a source of joy.
No really. I’m not exaggerating when I say that buying those two stupid extra fish completely transformed the mood of the house. Seeing those three fish being happy made me happy. And the Boy happy. And Fawn happy.
Who’d have thought it, eh?