My daughter has had an aquarium for a year now. That has meant a year of fretting for the only person who takes care of its inhabitants: me. Just as I suspected, it has become a place of death, destruction and intermittent death.
The karked it roll of honour numbers: two snails, one sex-pest molly, two neons and a guppy. That’s 6 deaths in one year, an average of one death every two months. The total number of occupants has reached 16, so, if you choose to make this particular aquarium your home you have a 3 in 8 chance of dying. That’s nearly a 50% chance of death – how depressing.
There has been an ongoing situation between two angelfish. Some time ago the level of mild bullying stepped up a gear to outright aggression; in fact, it’s been like having a bear-baiting contest in the corner of the front room. I should have put my foot down then. I did not. Anyway, I found one of the angelfish upside down under the BAFTA mask last week and after a few days, when I considered it was a dead fish swimming (and seriously considered the final clove oil solution), it started looking like it might live. So the Bully Boy aggressor had to go. After a temporary Bank Holiday Weekend solution of partitioning the tank with a cheeseboard, the Big Bad Angelfish has been evicted and sent to Boot Camp down the road.
We now have one much happier, if slightly disabled angelfish, swimming in the tank with its few remaining friends. A happy ending? I don’t know, because we now have a Power Vacuum in the tank, which must be filled. In the meantime it has, without question, beaten the odds.