August 29, 2013 by jeliwobble
Some time ago, Middle daughter went to feed her Betta, only to discover it was no longer in the small tank it called home. There was much consternation, a certain amount of perfunctory searching (I mean, how far can a fish actually get?), and a final sighed acceptance that the cat probably ate it.
Flash forward to today. A chance move of a box to get at a shoe and there are the sad, dessicated remains.
While the idea of a fish flinging itself out of a tank might be a stretch, Bettas have been known to do just that. It’s an awful thought, the poor thing wriggling on the top of the dresser, desperate to get back into the life sustaining water it had just struggled free of, gasping for breath, realising slowly that this was a fundamental mistake and it’s all over, finally convulsing onto the floor and under a box where no one will discover your small body for several months.
Could it have been saved? Who knows?
Would I be feeling less like this is some kind of metaphor for the toils of life and the choices we make if we had found it sooner? Probably.