Fishbowls of Death

I love fish.  I had a small aquarium when I lived out west, and the soothing beauty of life in perpetual liquid motion lowers my heart rate and softens the sharper edges of my brain.  I can spend hours by myself in a well-appointed aquarium, like Vancouver or Sydney.  In the Toronto abode there is not a very good place to keep a proper aquarium, at least not one of any size, and so I have been keeping my fish love contained to betta, the most beautiful disposable fish of all.

I say disposable, but I don't mean it.  The Siamese Fighting fish are gorgeous creatures who happen to live in small cramped containers and do not require filtered water.  Their sheer ease of care makes them a prime target for people like me who are not all that great at maintaining their relatively low standards of living.  I have never named a betta.  I have had a long running series of Red Fish and Blue Fish. This is really for the best.  That said, most of my fish have lasted a few years.  This is despite my interventions rather than because of my tender care. The most recent Blue Fish was dead in his vase on the counter for a very long sad time because I lacked the organization to dispose of his remains properly.  Yes, I am a terrible person. 

Today, we turn over a new fish leaf.  Accompanied by the kiddos, a trip to the ANIMAL BIG BOX STORE netted me not one new friend, but two.  Technically Pink Fish is for the kidlet and Blue Fish is for me.  I like a fish in the kitchen to keep me company when I do the dishes.  I believe the root of this is the fact I hate kitchen work, but love fishes, so a little swimming buddy improves my outlook on such dread activities as meal preparation and food area cleaning.  If I could find a way to allow the kiddos to thrive without ever devoting any time or energy to kitchen work, I think my quality of life would rise exponentially.  At any rate, I operate on the belief that a little fish improves the atmosphere. 

Over the years, the death of fish has rarely been an emotional event. I was miffed when some of my longer term fish friends bit it, but usually it is more annoyance that I will need to dispose of the remains and then go back to a dreaded ANIMAL BIG BOX STORE (there is no convenient Mom-N-Pop disposable fish store in my sphere) to choose the healthiest looking specimens from the rack of little plastic cups. I am not by nature a shopper. And shopping for things that swim around without a battery pack feels weird. 

Now that the whole question of mortality is raised for the next generation, I might have more drama thanks to the little fish and their penchant for death.  In the equation there are two little girls who aren't yet scarred by bitter loss now.  Do I teach them to see fish as temporary - and by extension, to understand that all is temporary? Or do I put the emphasis on the present, on enjoying the flashy little creatures right now without thought of what will come. Should we stand aloof and shut our hearts to the fish, or risk exposure to loss, pain, and the attendant dramas?  

I think I walk the middle path. There shall be no names.  But there should also be time to wonder at the magical beauty in the little bowl.