On Tuesday, our apartment fish committed suicide.
We assume it was Tuesday, at least. It really could have been any time between Friday and that afternoon, when a collective void of productivity swept my roommates and me from Charlottesville toward a brief but joyous respite back home. Before we learned of the fish incident, it was a glorious four days — in my book, the subtext of Reading Days is Feeding Days, and I can say with complete confidence the alacrity with which I stuffed my face this weekend was unparalleled by any of my previous performances.
Yes, fall break was great. The return was not.
I was the first one back in our apartment. I peeked in the fish bowl, saw it was empty and assumed one of my roommates arranged for Sparky’s stay elsewhere, likely the Holiday DolphInn or a place with similarly good reviews on Kelp (nailed it).
This assumption was well founded. Historically, we’ve exhibited a similarly pragmatic approach to pet care, shouting things like “The tank looks really gross someone should deal with that” and “I’m not feeding Sparky it’s [same person who always does the dishes]’s turn” when duty called. With a track record of such model caretaking, it was only to be presumed someone made sure the fish was fed.
Twenty minutes later, two more roommates stumbled in, lugging suitcases full of still unworn pants. It’s adorable how college students always kid themselves into thinking they’ll actually wear pants. After a brief flirtation with unpacking, they inquired after Sparky, and I told them that our fourth roommate — the last one who left the apartment on Friday — appeared to have taken him to a fish-sitter. For the two hours that followed, we contently sat at the dining room table and did homework, ignorant of the tragedy that had befallen us.
Though completely unlike rain on our wedding day, irony soon shattered our illusion of bliss. Around 8 p.m., my fourth roommate came in, put her stuff down and offhandedly asked us, “Did anyone feed Sparky?”
Our jaws dropped. All eyes turned to the tank, then down to the floor, then inexplicably up at the ceiling, then back to the floor, where what we previously thought was a crispy brown leaf now revealed itself to be … Sparky.
Isn’t it ironic? No, it’s not, because Alanis Morissette fails miserably at applying classic literary terms and that song is actually the worst. It was, however, really, really sad.
Apparently, Betta fish can jump. According to the ever-reputable www.bettafish.com, Bettas, though expertly “thought to be some of the nicest looking freshwater fish around,” can jump up to five inches. This fact is confirmed on the site by a Canadian named Sena, who proudly claimed to have measured every one of her Bettas’ jumps. I think this speaks loads about Bettas, as well as Canadians.
The jumping phenomenon was news to me. I should probably note I expressed no claim to dear old Sparky — can he be dear and old if he only lived eight weeks? — until he was dead. I mostly cohabitated with the little twerp and affectionately noted he “wasn’t my fish” every time someone asked if he was fed. My roommates, however, nodded in agreement, saying they were aware of this possibility but never thought it would actually happen. You always think it will be another Betta, another time, another place. You never think it will be here, now — Sparky.
We mournfully sang “Amazing Grace” as Sparky spun around the toilet bowl, his eyes glued open in anticipation of his watery grave. In that moment, I became painfully aware of the vainness with which we attempted to play house. The only thing I’ve cooked in our apartment is Lean Cuisine. Our refrigerator, whose contents imply cheese is the basis of all six food groups, is leaking an unidentifiable liquid currently pooling along the wall. Last weekend, I had to use a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser to erase twerk marks off the wall.
It is with this collective experience that I wish to extend my deepest apologies to Sparky. We weren’t ready for you, though you helped ready us. If wherever you are happens to have a stash of independently run student newspapers and you come across this, know that we’re thinking of you and that we waited a whole 18 hours until we cleaned the carpet.
Swim on, little guy.
Julia’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at j.horowitz@cavalierdaily.com.
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