Illustration by Jan Igoe
Every now and then, I find myself in one of those hoity-toity offices with the luxurious leather sofas and a waterfall in the waiting room. The really fancy ones feature wall-to-wall aquariums filled with exotic tropical occupants to take your mind off how long you’ve been waiting and how much you’re paying to be there.
Other times, there’s just a lonely, little betta fish hanging out in a Dollar Store dish. (Nobody ever said life is fair to fish, either.)
As pets go, bettas are a bargain. First off, they’re fish, so you’ll never have to buy a leash or hire a fish walker. You won’t need insurance, because a fish won’t nip your neighbor’s kid or mistake your iPhone for a late-night snack. To find a pet requiring less care, you’d have to adopt a rock. (Some of you probably tried that in the ’70s.)
Another plus: Bettas are extremely durable. Don’t let those delicate, fashionista fins fool you; these fish can handle themselves like tiny, water-logged Ninjas. They hail from the rice paddies of Southeast Asia, where nonstop floods and crippling droughts didn’t faze them. Instead, they learned to breathe air and do battle for puddle rights. The only thing they can’t survive is stupid owners—some of whom believe that bettas don’t need food and can get by in a half-cup of Clorox. That’s when they get depressed.
Yes, just like us, fish may get down. They crave bigger bowls, leafier plants, entertainment and cleaner water (particularly desirable when your living room doubles as a latrine). Without it, they just mope around the tank. That’s when scientists like to study their brains.
Professor Julian Pittman has been researching zebrafish because their neuro-stuff-I-can’t-pronounce is so similar to that of humans. Apes may be our closest cousins, but not when it comes to anxiety and depression.
How do they determine that a fish is clinically depressed, you ask? According to a recent edition of the Johns Hopkins News-Letter, it’s called the novel tank test. You take a fish and put him in an unfamiliar tank, which naturally stresses him out, so he loiters around the walls, nervously searching for an exit—much like me in a bar. But, after two weeks on antidepressants, you drop Mr. Z in a new tank, and it is party time. He’ll scope out the whole place from top to bottom and go flash the girls some fin. That whole wallflower thing? Gone.
Life is even tougher on farm-raised fish. These poor things are so stressed, they’re virtually suicidal. For fish crammed into overcrowded tanks, it’s like spending your entire life on a city subway during rush hour. The poor claustrophobic creatures lose interest in everything, even swimming. They just float around waiting to die. Scientists call them “dropouts.”
So, if you’re a fish parent, do everything in your power to prevent your babies from dropping out. Get the kids a nice, roomy tank with a view. Keep the water clean. Spring for some live plants, and rotate your playlists. With proper care, they’ll not only survive but thrive. And, maybe you won’t have to share your Xanax.
Jan Igoe hopes February is a happy time and no one is suffering from end-of-winter blues. Like Dory says, you just have to keep swimming. Before you know it, we’ll be shoveling yellow pollen off our cars and paying hurricane insurance. Never mind; pass the Zoloft.