So I’ll complain a little bit. Shortly after we moved, the fish tank incurred a knick in its seal – possibly the result of a somewhat maniacal cleaning spree, we can never be sure. The knick was at the top of the tank, so was technically only a problem if the water level was too high. Except, when I change the tank, I like to fill the water as high as possible, plus an inch, so the water takes longer to evaporate, and the filter won’t annoy me for approximately 2 or more weeks, warranting another water change. It’s all about my laziness here, let’s note. So without being able to fill the tank to near overflow, the frequency of filter annoyance increased.
We were at the point of Tank Needs a Water Change once again. I cursed out the obnoxious sound of falling water a bit yesterday evening, and pulled the plug on the filter for a few hours of silence. Then I noticed the tank was leaking again. What the what? Like a big puddle. And the table wood – granted, cheapo composite like everything is made from these days – is now warped. And where exactly was the leak coming from. It’s still leaking from the top? Yes, yes it is. The water line is maybe 3 inches below said leak, and yet it magically continues to draw water up to create a continuous dribble-drabble down the side. I keep thinking of inexplicable weeping Virgin Mary statues, but maybe that has nothing to do with anything. I’m sure it doesn’t.
At approximately 11:30 p.m. I decided to free the fish. We need a new tank. I mean, we could fix the seal, maybe, but I don’t trust this tank overall. It’s on the decline. The table wood is warped. And secretly, I’m not even sure I want fish anymore. (Shhh.) And the fish-freeing is, granted, SO much easier than during our move, when I had the Death Flu, no tank lights and only a colander in which to catch the fish. Ooo, and hey – this time, I could even keep the bucket warm with the heater.
I murdered 6 fish last night, m. With the heater. More might die. I am a killer of fishes. I mean, beyond the kind that we eat. I am a killer of pet fishes. It’s much worse. And aren’t a pisces? Isn’t this my sign? Looking at their sad, pale and swollen bodies floating in the commode this morning, I felt sure this was punishment for secretly wishing we didn’t have fish anymore. Or for being stupid. Whichever. Bad fish karma regardless.
I’m afraid to look in the bucket again. I don’t want to deal with the nasty wasteland of a tank or the rotting table. Not to mention, do I want to invest more money in yet another tank whose water will have to be changed and which will almost definitely incur that vexing green sludge issue from the wasteland tank? Because I am a murderer of fish.
Who knew my complaining would go on so long. And I was also going to tell you how we’ve become tick bait. And I haven’t even touched on the Bible bars and the cure-all tonic at our Amish Market. Next time, friend. Next time.
love to you -
penelope, fish killer