We decided to set up a fish tank in my kid’s room. He loves the tank at the library, and we figured that he’d enjoy having his own little aqua city to gurgle him to sleep each night. So we got eight little tetras and a couple of lovely guppies and a cute little catfish and all the hundreds of dollars of bullshit that goes with them.

It was worth it–the kid does love the tank. He says goodnight to it and points at it and makes “ooh” noises. But the tank is mostly empty now, after less than two weeks in operation, because almost as soon as we got them in, those little fishies were dying to get out. Like, literally. They all freaking died.

He totally didn’t notice. My kid obviously needs to spend less time sleeping and more watching The Count, because apparently numbers still mean nothing to him.

BUT I NOTICED. Every morning, mommy was in there, netting tiny fish carcasses and flushing them into the Afterlife. Each evening, I’d guiltily turn off the tank light and say a blessing to the ones that would obviously be dead by morning. One was even still moving when I flushed him; his tail was kind of dissolved-looking. He totally was not coming back from that.

When the population dwindled to half, we went back to the pet shop to ask for advice and were sold chemicals to treat the water for parasites. By this point I was frustrated and cursing and nursing a universal grudge, as is my usual way. On a whim, just before I went in to dump chemical crap into the tank of nearly-deads, I sat down and Googled “I have a new tank why the hell are all my fish dying”. I got several excellent results. Apparently people Google that phrase quite a lot.

I found a very resourceful blog that explained to me that there is a biological system (or lack thereof) called “New Tank Syndrome”. Basically, since fish are essentially swimming around in their own toilet, their water is full of ammonia and nitrates/nitrites (one or the other, maybe both–I’m no scientist). In an established tank, there are plentiful colonies of bacteria to break down the ammonia so that the fish can breathe happily. In a new tank, where these colonies haven’t built up, the ammonia levels continue to rise until the fish’s gills burn, and they suffocate. So my little friends were peeing their way into their own little fishy gas chamber. The only thing to do is stop feeding them (rotting food releases more ammonia), and pray.

I feel like this is information that the pet shop employees could have easily doled out.

Anyway, the misery continued until we were down to just two tetras and the noble catfish who, red-gilled, sat motionless on the bottom for days, stoically wiggling his moustache and praying for death. One tetra seemed almost unphased.

It’s the OTHER tetra who’s the real hero of this story. About six days ago, after witnessing the brutal deaths of nearly all his kin, he started swimming around in limp little circles, half of his body paralyzed like he’d had a a stroke. The next day he was sitting tail-up, with just his nose on the bottom of the tank. Hardly moving, he got stuck against the filter a couple of times, just clinging to life. Each time I’d assume he was dead and go in there with the net, he’d pop up like a zombie and stroke-swim away. Soon he was laying on his side on the tank floor, completely motionless except for his gasping little gills. I felt dreadful for him. I felt cruel. I knew I should just put him out of his awful tiny misery–he wasn’t coming back. But watching how he’d use all his remaining strength to get away when I tried to Grim Reaper him, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the plug.

For those of you who endured the ramble and stuck with me, A MIRACLE! The next day, THERE HE WAS, swimming alongside his bizarrely resilient buddy. He was a little weak, but mostly going just like a fish should. I’d name him Terry Fox or something, except that now he’s so completely better that both of the tetras’ incredible accomplishments have faded into obscurity because I can’t tell them apart. The catfish looks exactly the same, but a little less red around the gills. He never blinked in the face of all that pain. Basically, he is Buddha. These fish are my new spiritual leaders.