Fifth family member

By Cho Jae-hyon

A small, yellow fish has been living with my family for nearly seven years. I can’t tell whether it’s a she or he. But I presume it’s a she, simply because of the theory that longevity is not a virtue of maleness.

In a small plastic tank, she has lived for such a long time. She is one of four fish that were brought to our home as a birthday gift for my second son when he was a fifth grader.

Three of them didn’t live long. They were all gone in less than a few weeks, leaving behind the one still living in the tiny tank alone.

Her name is “Noraengi,” meaning “yellow one.” Noraengi, initially the size of my thumb nail, is now as big as my middle finger. It seems like she is still growing albeit unnoticeably.

Of my family members, I and my second son are the main feeders of the fish. I give her food several times a week. When she is hungry, she devours the falling feed in the blink of an eye.

She doesn’t require much attention. Even though we forget to feed her for days sometimes, she stays calm and cool. The only care Noraengi wants from us is not to leave her tank too dirty too long.

Several weeks ago, I found her tank was dirty. She was breathing on the surface. It was a very cold day when the mercury fell below zero degrees Celsius.

I usually replace the water in the tank on the veranda of my apartment. After putting Noraengi gingerly in a different washbowl, I cleaned the tank with tap water on the veranda. The temperature of the water was cold.

Afterward I filled the tank with the fresh tap water and moved her to the tank with my cupped hands. Accustomed to the cleaning procedures, she stayed tranquil until I finish all the cleaning work.

When I was washing my hands in the kitchen after putting the cleaned tank to where it was, my son abruptly yelled: “Something is wrong with Noraengi!”

I was surprised to find her jerking her body violently in the water. She stopped all movement seconds later, slowly floating to the surface on her side.

At the shocking sight, I belatedly grasped that the replaced water was too cold. I thought I had frozen her to death.

Lamenting how foolish I was, I hurriedly moved the tank to the sink basin in the kitchen, gathered warmer water in a box and put her into it.

But she was lying on her side and not moving. Even her thin fin showed no movement at all. I didn’t know how long she didn’t move. It seemed she stopped breathing.

Several minutes passed. A pang of guilt hit me hard. It was like an eternity.

However, miraculously, she started moving, struggling to regain her posture slowly. A few more minutes later, she was swimming around as if nothing had happened.

I let out a huge sigh of relief. What if she had been dead, after living with us for seven years, just because of my stupidity? It would have all been in vain. A wave of remorseful thoughts came across to my mind.

After the incident, when I look at her, it’s like she is saying, “What have you done to me, dude?”

It was the biggest crisis of her entire life. She overcame it and now lives in her tank in peace. Her knack for survival is amazing.

Sometimes, I feel like she is looking at us from her tank. She looks thoughtful when staying still in the middle of the water like a yellow submarine.

For a pet fish, seven years is a long period of time. She has spent the years with us together, riding over all kinds of difficulties. She is a strong fish, surviving all kinds of man-made disasters and carelessness.

Not only a friend to us, she is the fifth member of our family. As she grows old, she is not as active as before.

She used to be a swift, playful swimmer, darting from one corner of the tank to the other end like a bolt and making noises by sucking and spitting out small stones strewn at the bottom.

These days she spends most of the daytime inside a clam shell in the corner of the tank. The shell, slightly bigger than her body, is a nest for her, in which she rests.

She looks more pensive inside the shell than before. I hope she will turn more lively and vigorous when the weather gets warmer.

When I look at the fish, I sometimes feel the awe of life. The tiny fish is faithful to her life. Salute to the master of solitude. Long live Norangi!