Caring
photo collage C. Ascher
I had a goldfish when I was young; actually it was a blackfish. It was
one of those feathery-finned ones with a long, undulating tail and big, bulging
eyes. It was very pretty. It lived by itself in a round bowl that had two flat
sides and that sat on the kitchen counter. The fish would spend its time
swimming back and forth lazily along one wall then the other of the bowl. The
only thing that seemed to animate it was the food I sprinkled in dry slivers on
the surface of its water.
I concluded that food was its life force, almost convinced by everything
I learned in school that it was ‘just a fish’, incapable of any awareness other
than hunger; everything else was ‘just instinct”.
I say I was almost convinced of its mindless status because there were
moments when I felt guilty about it. It was alone. Didn’t fish belong in
schools? And it seemed distressed when its water got cloudy, swimming closer
and closer to the surface until it hung there by the mouth trying to suck in
fresh air. I would clean the bowl then and note how it would dart to the
opposite wall from where I stood when I bent down to examine it as if it were
angry at me and wanted to avoid me.
My blackfish didn’t live too long. After one of my infrequent bowl cleaning
jobs I noticed one of its eyes was bigger than the other. A fungus, I was told.
The fish died and it disappeared down the toilet. I was reassured by my adults
that such fish are ‘delicate’ and ‘they don’t live long”, that it ‘died of old
age”. These were comforting thoughts. Still, I decided, no more fish bowls for
me!
I didn’t think much about fish other than when I consulted a menu as I
grew into adulthood. Not until I came across another fish, this one a real
‘gold’ fish, a small carp, in another bowl on a kitchen counter.
A friend and I had traveled from home to go do research in another city.
We enrolled in a course meant to teach realistic oil painting techniques of the
old masters. My friend was focused on learning the techniques; I wanted to
assess the teaching method and the qualifications of the teacher in view of
hiring him to do a workshop. It was a two-week course. Not inclined to stay in
a hotel, nor in fact able to afford it we looked for and found a house to rent.
The owner left on vacation with his children and we settled in.
The first thing I noticed the next morning at breakfast was a putrid
smell. That’s when I realized that the bowl on the counter wasn’t for rooting
plants but was a fish bowl. It was so filthy the water was brown, and it stank.
At its surface I could see what looked like a hole opening and closing. It was
a fish half on its side trying desperately to get some air. I had to do
something.
I was meticulous about cleaning the kitchen sink before gently
transferring the poor fish into clean water. I had to scoop it into my hand out
of the dirty water to do so; it was like handling jelly. The fish’s scales were
slimy like the water. My friend, looking over my shoulder said, “Don’t bother,
it won’t survive,” then, looking at the fish bowl, “Oh gross!”
It took me many trips to the toilet to dump disgusting, smelly water,
much time rubbing slime off the glass bowl and off the plastic … and rubbing
the bed of gradually colourful stones to clean each one thoroughly. As I
worked, I thought of my long ago fish. I thought of solitary confinement, I
thought of torture, I thought of mindless neglect by people convinced from
childhood that not all living things ‘feel’, ‘think’ or ‘act’ like us and
therefore don’t deserve care and attention. We’re taught these things though
our religions, our sciences, or social conditioning, and we as a result go
about exploiting, abusing and degrading everything around us – and sometimes
are inspired to do the same to those who are different than us.
It seemed indeed that my friend was right. When I gently returned the
goldfish to its now sparkling clean bowl, it barely moved. I’d carefully run my
finger along its body to at least loosen the slime, and though its scales
showed red and white again, I wasn’t sure it would benefit from my handling. It
was such a tiny little thing. Yet, day after day I sprinkled small amounts of
food onto the water’s surface, and every other day I refreshed the water. Over
the course of the next week, I saw the fish begin to right itself. I saw it
move down from the surface to poke among the stones, I saw it begin to swim
with more and more energy. I was deeply relieved.
“Look at that,” said my friend one morning when I joined her in the
kitchen for breakfast.
“What?” I asked, having just woken up in my upstairs room and stumbled
down the stairs still half asleep.
“The fish. That’s so weird!” she said. “Go out and come back,” she
commanded. I did as I was told. “Well that’s something!”
“What?” I asked again, slightly irritated.
“It reacted when you came into the kitchen. Like it knew you.”
So we tested the theory. When she came and went from the room, or went
up to the bowl to look at the fish or touched the glass the fish did its normal
fish thing, it just swam around indifferently. However, when I left the room
and returned, it seemed to be waiting, facing the door. If I approached the
bowl, it swam toward me, and if I touched the glass, it poked it as if it
kissed the tip of my finger. It responded to me and only me, even when others
came to visit us.
My only regret in returning the house to its owner and his children a
week later was leaving the fish in their so-called care. If I could have stolen
the fish, I would have; I felt like a traitor, because leaving, I knew what
would happen to it.
Well. I listen now as people still go on with “It’s just a dog!” or
“It’s a chicken / cow / pig / rhino, people need to eat!” or “It’s a just a
beluga!” They are convinced that we need spare them nothing, that the creatures
who share our lives don’t ‘feel’, ‘think’ or ‘act’ ‘like us’. I think: Would it
really be any different if they did?
WE act like us; is that such an enviable, superior thing?
There’s an artwork in there somewhere. I’m working on it.
