Oh, To Be Loved by You

I never knew what it was like to be loved by a fish. I underestimated what it was like to rescue an animal and have them know it. Up until this point, the only pets I truly connected with had hair, and Buoy was a fabulous indigo-cobalt with magenta accents at the fins. Betta fish, bred deep within the pet trade with undeniable animal abuse, sported long and flowy fins, especially the males. Buoy had elegant fans as fins, and the downside to that was how difficult swimming could be. In the wild, beta fish have significantly smaller fins-- for obvious reasons. How uncomfortable would it be if humans had unreasonably large feet, all for nothing but cosmetics? Walking and keeping balance would take on new turf, as it has for these beautiful creatures. This was a problem, the gravity of which, sunk much later and deeper.

I had gained extensive knowledge of beta fish when the pandemic hit. As a college student, now stabilized in her hometown for the remainder, I was yearning for connection and care like a child weeping for friends. Everyone was getting dogs and cats, furry things with substantially more maintenance in the contract. I couldn't do that. No longer was I going to be living on my own, but I was also in a house with several family members including a toddler. Noise was a factor. One day, upon going to Petco for self-care, I stopped in front of all the betaa fish, contained in bowls barely an inch larger than their own circumference. That's akin to a jail cell-- walls big enough to house you but not to keep you alive. Remembering an old post I saw of a man who nursed an ill betta to health, I was inspired. I wanted to give back. So I bought Leonidas. Named after the general in the 300 movie, to hopefully imbue strength in the vulnerable animal. A rich-cobalt fish with golden fins... or at least, that's what he's supposed to look like.

Leonidas was grey. And he was sick. I felt I could do something and dove into the world of fish care to save him. During this time, I had practically become an expert. Knowing the natural habitat, the operation of their crude lung, what they preferred to eat, even signs of health and distress. In addition, I also learnt of their diseases. Parasitic, fungal, bacterial infections were all manageable and treatable with medicine. Unless the fish contracted Dropsy. Otherwise, known as the terminal cancer for fish across the board, it's contracted from poor water conditions, usually as a baby. These water conditions would have to be atrocious and unchanged for weeks, much like the housing containers pet stores sell them in. The key identifier of Dropsy was it allowed the fish to heal for a while... then comes back with a vengeance. I watched Leonidas slowly get better, his colors returning. Then, he stopped eating. He held on for a week as I watched him slowly die, knowing and fearing it the whole time. That was my last fish, I promised.

It was a year later when my sister texted me a picture of a betta fish. In a large beer glass (of a brand that wasn't even alcoholic), with the widest part covered by rocks, housed a sad, dark-colored betta with fins completely tucked into his body, only filling in the spaces a singular plastic plant didn't fill. The pet of our friend's roommate was literally left for dead. Anya's text wrote, "Please take him. He'll die without you." I'm ashamed to admit I took longer than I should have to pick him up. I was still scarred from Leonidas, and secretly hoping I wouldn't have to care for another. But we all knew there was no other way this little guy would survive. Upon entering the apartment and seeing him in person, I knew immediately that the plastic plant was scratching his delicate and ostentatiously long fins. Buoy opened up milliseconds on removing that plastic nightmare.

After a turbulent 30-minute drive home, we were finally in the bathroom for an overdue water change. It was then I could truly see how large Buoy was and I had to hunt for an even bigger container to house him. He was so big, and the beer glass so small, the only way to move him was to just pour everything into the new home. I was surprised he had an appetite after all that. The previous water was so bad, I could smell the remnants of the emptied beer glass as I'm tending to him. Buoy slept for a week straight.

Buoy got his name a bit later on. The water conditions of the beer glass were so foul his gut biome was jacked. Betta fish are voracious eaters, with stomach's the size of their eyeball, and are very prone to bloating. Healing bettas even more so. I'd feed Buoy one pebble, soaking in water beforehand, and he'd still bloat so much he'd bob on top of the water like a buoy. Any excess food I tried to remove, he'd shark it too. This went on for about two weeks until his gut stabilized, but I'd already coined his name, honorary Buoy.

He was my greatest companion during one of the hardest times in my life. Struggling with depression and a loss of purpose, I was in my room constantly. Parts of my memories, I don't even remember what I was doing... but I remember Buoy. I'd come home and immediately check his tank. Oftentimes he'd be hiding in the grove of live plants bettas love to hide in. When I'd retreat, opting to give him privacy, he swam out. I couldn't see him, but he could see me and he'd come out to say hello. Buoy would flirt with me as I'm writing in my journal, moving to a position where he could see and splaying his fins out, beating softly in the water. He'd hide if anyone else came in, but with me he wanted to be seen and see in return. One day, I was in a deep low. I'd cheer myself up by dancing when these moods swung, and this time, I could really sense it working. I felt called to come over to my desk and dance with Buoy. I often involved him in whatever I was doing, be it talk to him or come right up and have him be a part of it-- tank and all. I'm jiving back and forth, bobbing my head side-to-side when I realized... Buoy was moving side-to-side too. In fact, Buoy was mirroring me at my speed. It would seem my sweet fish was dancing, and dancing with me. After all this time and care I poured into something I'd accustomed to being indifferent, Buoy loved me. And I knew because I loved him the same.

Buoy died December 2021. His fins were deeply cut from the plastic plant, wounds that never quite recovered, no matter how hard I tried. Whether his death was from that disgusting water, the horrible plastic, or old age, I am not sure. I blamed myself for a long time, swearing I could have done more, been a better owner. It was easier than admitting it was Buoy's time to go. I miss him every day. I mourned him with a deep fondness only my closest see. It is with these sweet memories I remember a most beloved pet I couldn't hold in the typical ways but for the water between us. I never imagined being loved by a fish. I didn't think it was possible. Now I can't imagine anything else. Rest in peace Buoy.

N.Vs.