On a cold, bleak winter day in 1998, that was the final sad result of the first betta fish I’d bought.
It shouldn’t have ended up that way. I remember the first time I went into a pet store and saw that majestic looking betta, bright red with flowing fins, crammed into a tiny little plastic cup.
There wasn’t enough room for him to swim. Heck, he couldn’t even move. Nor could he even spread out those amazing fins.
So I decided I had to buy that noble fish. I had to save his life and give him the happiness he deserved after being treated so cruelly by the pet store.
But only a few months after taking him home, I failed. It seemed like even though I did everything I thought I should, my betta still died.
I tried again with other bettas. They did okay (living average lifespans), but it seemed like there would always be something wrong with them. A betta would stop eating for days. The next week another betta’s beautiful fins would split… and then never heal… no matter what I did.
I kept their water insanely clean. I treated them like pampered royalty, catering to all their wants. I followed all the instructions I could.
But still, there was always something. I got so tired of it. I’m a grown man — which makes me ashamed to admit this — but there were days I broke down and cried. I love bettas and want to do everything I can for them.
About the only thing I had going for me was my persistence — my ability to do in-depth research and my drive… Read more…