That Darn Catfish

“We have agreed we don’t want a dog, you’re allergic to cats, and you don’t believe in keeping birds in a cage. Shall we get an aquarium?”

My husband’s words seemed innocuous enough, so I agreed. After all, how much trouble could an aquarium cause? Twenty-four years later, I have very nearly reached the end of my mental tether, and Jim is seriously considering having me committed to a place where I can’t harm myself. Or him.

It started innocently enough with a ten-gallon aquarium, which Jim placed on the bar separating the kitchen and dining areas. I was not enthusiastic about that idea but didn’t see any other place to put it, so there it stayed. He began his life as an aquarist by purchasing a catfish, for scavenging, and several exotic fish of one kind or another. The fish arrived in a variety of colors that brightened up the place, and Jim arranged the aquarium so there were hiding places among the rocks and plants. A few fish reproduced, most did not. That didn’t bother Jim. When the population died out, he purchased more. At one time or another, he must have included most of the varieties available in the pet store, and some that weren’t.

The catfish lived on.

In one period, he specialized in angelfish, those beautiful white creatures with the bluish color located here and there. Jim agrees the blue points on the lower fins are there but says the blue edging on the upper body and the dorsal fin isn’t there at all, it’s just backlighting. Well, phooey on that idea—I know blue when I see it. The angels eventually joined their families in fish heaven.

The catfish lived on.

With one of his purchases, Jim accidentally introduced snails into our aquatic kingdom. Those little creatures multiplied rapidly. I carefully avoided looking at the aquarium until I convinced Jim that I had no plans for taking up the French habit of eating them. He removed the ugly pests. I didn’t watch him, so I can’t say for sure what he did with them, but I was careful to do all the cooking for an appreciable time thereafter.

The catfish lived on.

Apparently, Jim lost interest in exotic fish and decided to investigate the inhabitants of a nearby creek. He came in one afternoon carrying a small crayfish that he named Sharon, for reasons best known to himself. I was not sure that I wanted anything with claws in the house, but into the aquarium Sharon went. I do not remember what Jim fed this wild creature, but she grew. And Grew. AND GREW. I returned from a shopping expedition one day to find Sharon sidling more or less in my direction. I don’t know how many legs crustaceans have, but certainly more than I do, therefore, too many. I swept her up on a dustpan, dumped her back into the aquarium, and covered it with a heavy towel. Just let her try to escape again!

That evening Jim and I had a lengthy conversation on exactly what constitutes proper inhabitants of an aquarium. Soon, the crayfish joined her friends in the creek.

The catfish lived on.

Tadpoles followed the crayfish. Jim watched them metamorphose, as they have a tendency to do, into jumping creatures commonly called toads. Jim assures me there is a difference between toads and frogs, but you can’t prove it by me. We finally agreed they don’t belong in an aquarium, so outside they went, joining other jumping animals, regardless of identity.

The catfish lived on.

An assortment of fish from one creek or another followed the toads. The one I remember best was a wide mouthed bass, which Jim named Viola after one of our friends. Fortunately, she is sufficiently good-natured to laugh off the insinuation. Viola-the-fish knew exactly who gave her food, and swam to one end of the aquarium every time Jim approached. She ignored me completely, but I didn’t shed any tears over that. I didn’t shed any tears, either, when I convinced Jim that she had reached “keeping” size for a serious fisherman. He took her to a pond and turned her loose.

Catfish. Now, there is no better eating than fried catfish and hushpuppies. This particular catfish never grew to eating size, and it is just as well since it soon became a familiar friend, almost a human member of the family. Cannibalism just isn’t in the books, as far as I’m concerned. It did a good job of keeping the aquarium clean, and I guess it would still be in there, slaving away, but at the ripe old age of eighteen years, it developed some sort of fungus. No matter how Jim worked to cure the ailment, nothing prevailed. After a few days, the catfish went belly up.

No more catfish.

With the old friend gone, Jim decided he must have a new friend to relieve his mourning. He found another crayfish that he named Fred, in honor of my brother. I reminded the man of the house about the problems with Sharon, but he was not listening. Fred grew. He really outdid himself. I reached the conclusion he turned into a lobster because anything that big cannot be called a crayfish. Conversation between the two humans grew to new heights on the subject of proper occupants for an aquarium.

We had not reached a conclusion to the problem when, in the wee hours of morning, I awoke to the sound of little feet pattering across the hardwood floors. Being the thoughtful person that I am, I reached for the flashlight rather than turn on a lamp and disturb my beloved spouse. Or did I intend to use it as a weapon? That is anybody’s guess and I’ll never tell. I shined it on the intruder. Yes, you guessed it. The crayfish-cum-lobster had come to visit. Fred had climbed out of the aquarium, crossed the dining room, sashayed down the hall passing four open doors, and entered our bedroom. Do you think he went to Jim’s side of the bed? Don’t be silly. He went all the way across the room, to my side of the bed. I pride myself that, in the face of being nibbled to death, I spoke calmly. “Jim, that monster has come after me. He knows I don’t want him in the house. He has come seeking revenge. He will probably eat me. Then he won’t fit in the aquarium any longer. He will take over the whole house. You said he couldn’t get out. He did. Do something!” My short, choppy sentences apparently got through to my snoring husband, because he swung himself out of bed.

“Take it easy, will you? He must have climbed up the thermometer and got out that way, but he won’t eat you! I’ll take him back and move the thermometer.”

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep the rest of that night, and morning brought renewed conversation on the subject of aquarium pets. Fred eventually went back to the creek where he is probably terrorizing the rest of the inhabitants.

The present inhabitant of the aquarium is a woman-eating piranha disguised as a bream. Anything that vicious has to be a male, so I refer to it as He. He has grown so large I watch from across the room as he grabs at the food Jim gives him twice a day. Jim assured me the loud, popping sound is only a sucking noise. However, if I dared get close enough to look into He’s mouth, I am sure I would see teeth.

Jim watches me closely now. His care pleased me until I realized he believes I am about to become unhinged. My loving husband stands guard (over me? over the fish?) while I watch He closely. I expect to see legs developing just any day. I have decided that the instant He’s legs begin to grow, the sensible thing would be for me to move out of the house.

“Dear, fish do not develop legs—you’re confusing them with the tadpoles that became toads,” Jim patiently told me. “I don’t bring anything dangerous into the house, so you’re safe. Nothing will come after you, I promise.”

His soft voice did not soothe me. I countered with, “I know fish don’t normally develop legs! However, I am convinced this aquarium has evil properties of some sort and anything can happen. The crayfish came after me, didn’t he?”

Jim shook his head in wonder at my reasoning.

I believe I will write to my congressman and see if I can get aquariums declared unconstitutional. In the meantime, I will keep a wary eye on whatever critters Jim introduces into our aquatic kingdom.

Originally published in Aquarium magazine, June 1993, “That Darn Catfish” received an Honorable Mention in the prestigious 42nd Annual Writers Digest Magazine, Published Feature Article Competition.