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Posted by The Outdoor Tripp (Member # 619) on May 27, 2006, 09:36 AM:
Fish Tanked
Little brothers and aquariums should enjoy a distant relationship, much like ketchup and ice cream. Unfortunately, I stumbled onto this phenomenon only after dropping half my life savings on the finest ten-gallon rig this side of Mars.
It had it all – the sunken paddle-wheeler, swim-through pirate skull, bubble-up lid treasure chest, and the compulsory pandemic of plastic plants all stabbed into a neon field of colored gravel. And through this freak show of imported undersea technology meandered exotic fish of all colors, shapes and sizes – the other half of my life savings. I had outdone myself, and I was proud.
The dresser-top SeaWorld grabbed my nine year old brother Randy’s attention like a glue-boarded rat and held tight. Shortly into my budding fish husbandry career I gave him the behind-the-scenes tour, explaining how everything worked and why I had chosen each particular fish. Somehow, in a blinding flash of stupidity, my planned review of the “look but don’t touch” rule was omitted.
Returning to my room later that day, I was startled by flying fish, literally, as a large specimen rocketed two feet skyward before landing on the floor – something akin to Shamu attempting a low Earth orbit. Kneeling to retrieve him, I noticed all my fish flapping about on the carpet, enjoying various stages of the throes of death. I quickly investigated, finding the heater knob askew and the tank thermometer reading 104 degrees. My finned friends had merely chosen suffocation over becoming the key ingredient in a tropical fish bisque. I couldn’t blame them.
The lecture I gave Randy hardly lessened the financial pain of repopulating my tank or his apparent determination to run a tropical fish death camp with an iron fist. Three weeks later, a scream, running footsteps, and the slam of a bedroom door caused my alarm. I bolted upstairs to discover a yellow cloud spreading through the aquarium while its entire population huddled in one corner. Investigation revealed a stopper-less perfume bottle floating suspiciously on the surface.
Obviously not a natural occurrence, I pondered beating Randy senseless, but realized supplementing the three daily beatings I already provided him would do little good, and relieving him of his remaining sense might add to my problems.
Instead, I focused on rescuing my failing investments from the encroaching yellow tide. Working a dip-net with the skilled precision of a twelve year old aquaculturist, I couldn’t help but feel for the little buggers. What was it like living in fear of the nine year old crew-cut Godzilla that lurked beyond the glass wall? Of the tank’s 46 pricey inhabitants, I was able to save exactly… none.
I conducted a burial at sea. As I watched my expired pals swirl helplessly around the porcelain, I cursed myself for not going the lone-goldfish-in-the-cheap-dime-store-bowl route, contemplating the longevity of pet rocks, and the fact my mother had given birth more than once.
Tank cleaned and repopulated once more (thanks Mom), Randy steered clear at Dad’s promise of eternal grounding, and the aquarium thrived until we all went fishing later that month. Nothing spectacular, but Randy did catch a small bass that he named Moby and asked to keep. Dad begrudgingly agreed, promising to get him a tank the next day. Meanwhile, Moby was to remain outside in a bucket.
Once home, I overheard Randy telling Mom Moby looked lonely. I gave it little thought until entering my room that night to discover Randy hiding quite poorly under my bed, and Moby, sporting a fish-eating grin, hovering innocently in the aquarium. Oddly, Moby hovered alone. Hearing Randy’s worried whimper, I once again decided to spare his remaining sense, and this time throw in the towel.
Moby remained in the aquarium, surviving repeated assassination attempts until his release some months later.
The aquarium, demoted to terrarium status, then hosted chameleons until bugs became scarce that winter. Eventually retired to the garage, it lived unmolested until catching a horseshoe Randy tossed the following spring.
Tripp Holmgrain is an avid outdoorsman with a fishy past. Email him at tripp@theoutdoortripp.com.
Posted by Cdog911 (Member # 7) on May 27, 2006, 03:19 PM:
By God, Tripp, that's a story that brings back memories. LOL
I had moved back to Abilene and got a helluva deal on a 40-gallon aquarium that I promptly set up in my little home. Not much for exotics, I promptly stocked it with a couple small largemouths. Decorated the inside with all manner of native flora and gravel right from the streambed down the road a bit. It looked good. Then I got the bright idea of stocking it with a few bluegills. Bad idea. Those little bastards are viciously territorial and their jumping out of the tank as they fought for limited real estate put more than a couple on the carpet, literally and figuratively speaking. I pulled them out and got rid of them. In time, I was down to one nice specimen bucket mouth which I affectionately referred to as "Spot". (Couldn't have a dog, so what the hell!) I kept Spot around for most of a year and a half until such time that he or she simply outgrew his/her confines. Getting him outta there proved to be something of a chore, since a 40-gallon aquarium turns out to be amply large enough for an inspired largemouth dog to effect repeated escape maneuvers when the urge were to strike. So, I did what needed to be done. I got me a lawnchair, a ballcap, and a cold adult beverage set up in the dining room in front of the "dog pen". Next, your run of the mill crappie jig and a baitcasting rod/reel combo. Took all of about .00035 seconds for me to yell "Fish on!!!" and the fight was on. That dog swam one way, then the next. At one point, he made a run and must have spun four feet of line thru the screaming drag on my reel. Damned near spilled my beer. After I actually got tired moreso than Spot was, I yanked him outtta the tank and suspended him in the air as I carried him out the back door and to the waiting trash can. We really weren't that close.
Thanks for helping me to reminisce.
Posted by The Outdoor Tripp (Member # 619) on May 27, 2006, 05:20 PM:
You mean to tell me you didn't eat the rowdy sumbitch?
Must be a catch and release man.
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