Finding Nemo

I must admit, I'm a bit of a sucker when it comes to all creatures great and small. My poor, long suffering parents literally had their home turned into an animal hospital when I was growing up on the beach at Ocean Vista. I rescued everything from storm battered albatross to little rat kangaroos that we called "springy things". The odd fairy penguin also found itself in the Leeson outpatients ward. None of this included the list of pets we had collected. At one stage the back yard contained a sheep called Ink Spot, a basset hound called Hannah, a wallaby called Pogo, a guinea pig called Pig, two ducks called Daffy and Taffy, a budgerigar called Pippy, and a family of mice that had grown from what the pet store had told us were two compatible males. Add to this the menagerie of the injured and our home resembled a zoo. I'd patch the furry and feathered blighters up, feed them, let them rest and then send them on their merry way to whichever environment they had once come.

It was this amateur veterinarian instinct which led to a daring fish rescue last weekend.

On my way to breakfast, I walked past a bunch of stuff someone had thrown onto the street. Included in this mountain of detritus was an aquarium. Strangely, the aquarium still had water in it. As I walked passed I noticed movement behind a rock in the murky water. Lo and behold it was a lone fish, hiding from the noise and vibrations of the street and in danger of cooking in the rapidly heating water that was exposed to the full 30 degree sun. Thinking someone had just left the poor creature whilst they fetched a truck, I left him and continued to my breakfast and domestic duties, swearing to check on the little fella on the way back. Three hours later, I walked to the same spot to find the poor bloke swimming in what was by then a boiling stew. I decided the only course of action to be taken was a daring rescue. All I needed was a bag, some fresh water and an experienced accomplice. Luckily, I had with me at the time the helping hand of the Pirate Doris, who was not only sympathetic but almost purple with rage that someone could leave a fish in such a state. I went back to my flat, gathered my thoughts, some implements and cooked up a rescue plan.

By this stage of the afternoon, the pavement was full of pedestrians. So here's the scene: Tasmanian muppet (moi), hiding face behind baseball cap, saunters up to the tank and tries to scare said fish into plastic bag appropriated from seven eleven. Old man stops to watch the antics. Fish swims around tank, looking at Tassie muppet as if to say "you must be joking". Finally, le feisty poisson is cornered using the ol' Leeson double-handed side stroke ("nothing up my sleeves!") manoeuvre and coaxed into the bag. By this stage the old man is joined by a thronging crowd, eager to watch the free sidewalk antics of the tall, crazy white man and his ranting sidekick. I rip off the pipes that are attached to one heavy mutha flocka of an industrial filtration unit. With pipes, unit, power leads and bag of fish in hand, myself and my fish rescuing co-hort head for home.

We put Nemo (well, we DID find him. What else could we call him?) into a clean bucket of filtered water. We return to grab the tank (No point in keeping the poor little blighter in a bag all his life). By this stage a new crowd has gathered. They watch, point and wave from the safety of their parked cars, the other side of the street and their apartment balconies as the mad, sweating, swearing gweilo rips into the rest of the equipment, pulling leads, plastic hosing, machines, and contraptions of all sorts from the custom built wooden cabinet. I put this all into the tank, lift the tank up with the water and rocks still in it and lug the whole mess back home.

Back at the Bachelor Pad, the Pirate begins cleaning the apparatus whilst I wash the tank, get rid of the thick slime on the pipes and clean the crap out of the tiny pebbles in the bottom of the tank. We put fresh water in and start the process of putting all the hoses, machines, widgets, winkle wafers and crockle pins back in the sockets, holes, and power points that seem hell bent on confounding us. This induces much head scratching. If only we'd taken photos of the set up before we dismantled it! After two hours of puzzle solving, we finally hit on the right combination, thanks largely to the internet (Google the flock out of it!). But for some reason the water isn't flowing through the filtration system. The power is on, it's making a noise but there's no suction action. Pirate looks at me, I look at her, she shakes her head, I lose the argument to a steely glance and am forced to put my mouth to hose and suck like there's no tomorrow. As the water gushes into my mouth, I attach the hose to the filtrations system, spit the vile tasting slime from my mouth, and voila! We have lift off. Nemo has a new home. And his environment is clean. Pirate and I high five.

The next day, Nemo seems to be doing well, if not a little hungry. Pirate suggests a food hunt and a quest to find Nemo some friends is set in motion. We head to the fish markets in Mong Kok. Mien Gott! I've never seen so many fish in so many colours from so many places. Coral reefs, real Nemos, shrimp, eels, butterfly fish, you name it. We trapse from one shop to the next, showing fish mongers photos of Nemo and asking about food and friends. None of them seem to know what he is. One chap suggests he's an African fighting fish. We decide this is what he must be given his strength and will to live. We are co-erced into buying bacterial medicine for the water, food (that must contain gold given its cost), underwater flora, and a new light for the top of the tank (apparently fish need their gammas too!).

We head off with our new purchases and look around for more fish shizzle. The woman in the next shop is flamboyant, eager and helpful. She laughs at me when I show her what I've bought. "The fish will eat that plant in three seconds," She laughs. "Very expensive mistake. No good. Not for these fish." Great! $250 down the tubes. "Buy these fish. Very good. African Chili fish." Fighting fish but same same. Ok for your Nemo." Pirate picks five fish based on colour. I pick five based on their aggression (I figure the tank may as well be entertaining for us as well). We then head to another shop and buy fish furniture. This consists of a sunken pirate boat (the Pirate's choice) and three replicas of some far off Chinese mountain complete with plastic pagodas and bridges. $1500 later, we trudge home - pleased as punch - and introduce Nemo to his new playground and playmates. At first, Nemo keeps his distance and everything seems cool. Then, as we are about to leave the house to go to a party, Nemo swims to the front of the tank and looks at us. The new fish, which we have since found out are actually African Chilids from Lake Malawi (Google the flock out of it!), are going nuts in the background, chasing each other, fighting for territory and every once in a while nipping Nemo on his new Lucky Fin.

We leave.

We party.

We arrive home.

Nemo is no where to be seen.

Then we spot him.

Or rather, his tiny,

motionless

carcass.

Laying on the pebbles behind one of the mountains, in the corner of the tank, is a dead Nemo. I scoup him out, hold him in my palm and for one second consider the possibility of mouth to mouth. Pirate hasn't breathed for two minutes. Her quivering bottom lip has almost reached the floor. We are devo'd. Nemo is stone dead and rigid - murdered by a canTANKerous mob of African Chilids.  Beaten to a pulp and left to perish on his own.

Th poor little blighter!

I consider dashing the tank to the ground and stomping on the ACs to teach them all a lesson.

Our fish rescue weekend has been for nought. In fact, it's cost me a fishzillion.

Instead, and without completely understanding why, I offer his tiny carcass to Oscar the dog cat. Oscar being Oscar, takes one sniff and turns his nose up at such a rude offering. Pirate scolds me. I was just curious. Honest. I mean, I thought cats were s'posed to like fish. Waste not want not. Recycle and all that, what!

Nemo is buried in a pot plant on the verandah. A black plastic straw is used as a head stone.

Nemo. R.I.P.