Goodbye, Dear Antediluvian

It was a lovely, bright morning.  A Saturday morning with looking ahead plans to take care of, and things began well; the bathroom was cleared of spidered legs, none were found; a shake of the covers and I call it a made bed.  Time to go get donuts for the men that were going to work on the fuel solenoid and other expensive mysteries of the car.  Do not read further if you are eating a tuna sandwich or anything, really.  Death and cadaverine are on their way.

You know the promenade once you start heading for the door; you pick up speed, grab the laptop to do work, and glance at the fish to make sure things are all right.  Well, they weren't, and it took me no seconds to realize that the immensity being held by the filter was the plecostomus, awfully, completely dead.  Floating head up, clinging to the filter as he would; but by this time a white fungal growth was erupting in patches.  His beautiful omega eyes had become milky white.

There was no net large enough to contain him, so I got a kitchen rubber glove, lifted the lid, and batted him towards me with the fish net that I had.  There was weight, and the resistance I had to picking him up snarled and prickled my senses.  What would it feel like, would he hold together, would I get the ook on me, he can't be dead, my poor fish.  He had grown to 13 - 14 inches in the almost decade he lived.  But, you do what you must do and be honorable about it, no whining, for he was a good boy who swam to the top to have his nose pet.

I tried to get him by the head, yet when I picked him up, fluids that were not water poured out, fouling the tank with internal putrefaction.  The angel fish was fine, the two corys were alright, but the water smelt of foul rot; I dropped him into the plastic garbage bag lined with paper toweling, and carried the package to the bin.  Then commenced the cleaning of the tank to restore water quality, the car went further down the list of necessary actions.

I have a 60 foot siphon that reaches the sink so no hauling of buckets has to occur, especially with this 52 gallon tank that I feel will be finding a new home and the remaining fish downsize.  This was good, but there was also the fact that when a fish dies, oil is released and floats on top of the water in flat globules.  Flat, greasy, stinky fat. I had removed the dead fish in time before the whole carcass was defatted, so there was not much; but let me tell you, it is as potent as a dead skunk on the highway.  Again, what can one do?  No gloves, for they would have filled with the tank water.  Note to self: see what shoulder high rubber gloves cost.  But as a human, I am washable, and so plunged in with the business end of the siphon to get as much fetid water out as possible.

No cats were interested, thank heavens.  Me, the siphon, the sides of the tank, the net, all were coated with a slick, glistening fish oil which does. not. scrub. out.  After restoring the tank with a cycle of fill, flush, fill, flush, the final clean up was to get this effluvium of hell contained and disappeared.  I soaped the hose, net, filters, and outside of the tank many times with small success and the death of a toothbrush.  Human pores are another story, and be thankful you aren't near me except now I smell better than I did earlier.

Nothing.  Nothing worked. Online suggestions were lemon juice, vinegar, dish soap, toothpaste, hydrogen peroxide, Comet; I polished myself pink yet still smelled like a 1300s cesspool.  I couldn't take the car in like this, I couldn't go with a friend out in the crowd to see the Maritime boats.  They'd wonder what the hell was that, and I'd attract gulls.   I tried wearing long sleeves, but it was like a warming oven for a can of exploded tuna.  No lotion, bleach solution, or acetone (yes, I tried) removed the aroma enough that people wouldn't keel over.  Okay.  I had things I could do inside.

It is now hours later, and the fish tank is bubbling but it's still surprising not to see the pleco hanging off the side of the glass.   I also wish there was a yard to bury him in rather than just dumping the remains into the trash bin, but then everything is transient.  A horrid morning, a sad morning, and his gift of fish oil lingers; but it's changing.  No longer a mephitic fist, it has become more fishlike, as if I had been out on the lake, hauling nets.  It's the marine of the sea, the underlying piscean aroma that washes the shore; more tolerable to me, but still I insist on solitude, away from public noses.

The remaining fish are subdued, and an unusual companionship has temporarily blossomed between the angelfish, a temperamental snip, and the loach, who meditates.  They are staying close together, and certainly notice the hole left by our large friend.

Sleep is hours away; I do not want the dreams that came last night.  Vivid, lost, frustrated, and within view of my old house, it was one that I was glad to wake from.  No nightmare, but numerous dead ends  and rooms too open to view; I was sharing a house with strangers whose boundaries pushed mine into a knot as there was no division between rooms. I could see into their dining area from my kitchen, my bedroom was up in the ceiling behind a trap door.  

Tonight I hope to ride on the back of a finned giant, a plated catfish who can swim the rings of Saturn and embroider luminous trails between the stars.  I shall remember you until my own star fades.