White Eyes

 

I missed first light.

Once up I went downstairs. Every step was agony. I was walking like a cowboy who’d just been riding across the hills on a very fat horse. Every muscle ached.

I made a cup of tea and then went to the window to look at Big Fish.

Big Fish was no longer floating on the top of the water in the black re-cycling tub.

I felt cheered.

Then I saw the tom cat sitting next to the tub.

And my heart sank.

Then I glimpse Big Fish on the other side on the tub lying on the concrete.

I dashed outside scared away the cat and went to pick up Big Fish.

To my amazement he was still alive.

I slipped him back into the tub and realised I had to get him back into his pond as quickly as I could.

The cat came back and I chased it off again by throwing the secateurs which thankfully missed. It crept back a second time hiding beneath the bicycles and I snapped a towel in its direction to chase it away.

I ladled the water out of the pond litre by litre. I drain it through a colander to ensure that I wouldn’t miss any fish. I found two tiny live ones and felt cheered.

It was horrible work lifting out dead frogs by their legs and checking to see if tiny fish had white eyes and were really dead. I watched for movement in case there were any fish in the mud. I watched for bubbles. There was nothing just a stinking deadness.

There must come a point in a search and rescue mission when all hope is lost and the rescue is finally called off. It is a dreadful point in time. On this side of the second there was hope and on this side there is none.

I had reached that point.

I scooped out the stinking green-black mud out of the pond carrying it to parts of the garden where I hoped it might do some good. This mud left a black filthy stain where I poured it and a dreadful stench.

Back in the pond I began again scraping out the mud and then I found it one last fish. The No Hope tiny fish still alive. Thrilled I transferred it into the black plastic bin. It floats a little on its side, but I’ve seen how quickly the others have recovered and I am hopeful that No Hope will pull through.

With that half of the pond sorted I turned my attention to the other half of the pond. I’m more hopeful about this half. It is deeper and I’m hoping that any fish in this half would have had better water quality. I’m hoping to find the other large fish. I am optimistic.

But the water quality in this half is worse than in the other side. The oxygenating plants have acted like a choking net across the surface. I reach muddy water far sooner than I imagined. I find dreadful fish corpses and I am in utter despair. Despite all this I gently ladle out water half a litre at a time. I find one live tiny fish I christen Pinky. And place it with the others and it floats on its side.

It is the only one I find despite all the care I go through. Eventually, the pond is emptied and there is one last moment of cheer when I find one more tiny live fish in one of the upper plant sections of the pond.

I sort the plants and refill the pond with water. I’m frightened that the cat will return so I work quickly. It is dusk as I gently lower the big fish into the fresh water. He swims in delight. It is delight. He knows the shape and contours of the pond and he swims with a knowledge of when to rise and fall. And he swims to find his lifelong companions that he has chased and followed in a shoal and in whose nudging company over the years he has grown fat and content. It is one long swim only and it doesn’t take him long to know that he is all alone. And he stops and finds a place where the ivy curls into the water and he rests and I understand the sadness of fish.

There are about nine little fish that I return to the pond. Only Pinky is still floating on her side. I release them all into the water hopeful.

The following day Pinky is still floating but her eyes are now white. I scoop her out. Two other tiny fish are floating also with dead eyes. The Big One is nestled under the ivy and I think he’s dead too, but I can not bear to hook him out to know for sure. I comfort myself with his last swim, but it is hollow comfort.

A day or two later The Teenager calls me. There’s a goldfish in the middle of the lawn and a cat.

I don’t rush.

“He’s already dead,” I say. I don’t hurry. The cat must have unhooked the Big One from the ivy and then flicked it into the grass. I think it is nature taking its course.

But I then do go outside. The cat runs away at my approach and there is my fat goldfish lying on the grass and its still breathing. I pick it up and place it back in the water.

It swims but this time it does not look for companions in the pond, instead it swims to the ivy and again rests against it.

Floating on the water are more tiny fish with white eyes and I despair that I went to so much trouble to rescue them and yet they are still dying.

Yesterday, I lifted the Big One out of the pond. Its eyes were finally white. I scoped out two more tiny dead fish.

I think there are one two left and I have yet to see them nibble any food.

Outside it is raining and the surface of the pond is troubled by the wind and I daren’t go out to look to see if there are any more white eyes.