Fish Dance
Jun. 18th, 2008 02:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
summer_jackelThis morning, as I was sitting on the couch in front of the tank, fishgazing, I noticed a wonderful thing. My four Amazonian Silver Dollar fish appear to be spawning, or doing some sort of related behavior. These are vegetarian cousins to the piranha, bright silver, circular, flattish fish, the largest of whom is a little smaller than my palm. They are swift, alert and graceful. In the five or so years I have kept them, one has consistently been somewhat smaller, with more distinct dappling above the lateral line. I've often wondered if this was a gender or subspecific difference; some net sources claim that there are at least 5 subspecies of these guys, which vary in terms of size (some wild ones get to be the size of muscular dinner plates and are an important regional human food source) and amount of dappling. I haven't yet found any clear description of the science around it.
At any rate, the little dappled guy is more colorful this morning. It’s subtle, but the kind of thing you notice when you know a fish. His fins are rimmed in fine black, his spots are bolder, his gill slits a deeper red. All four of them are glowing bright silver with health. As, keeping still, I watched them, they began to swim in quick patterns around the tank with deliberate formation and exquisite speed, the dapple's head just below the biggest silver's, almost but not quite touching. In their ritual, they switch partners amongst themselves effortlessly, chasing one another in a fashion that seems in no way violent. They're shy fish. When I move even a little, they all stop and face me, eight wide black eyes trained unerringly in my direction. A few seconds more of my stillness relaxes them, and they return to their dance.
Even when I try to be objective, I can't help but see joy in their movements. They are, of course, beautiful; that's mostly why I keep them, after all. But this is a lovely and unexpected reminder that these wild animals, whose ancestors were removed from their native river in a bizarre symbiosis in which they are protected from predators and humans gain a little glimpse of alien beauty, aren't just objects d'art in my living room. They are living, autonomous beings, little ambassadors from another world living their quiet, fishy lives according to their fancy and genetic dictates, whether or not I pay attention.
I can't say what a fish feels, but evolution graced my species with emotions, which motivate me to keep on living. It seems at least reasonable that they know something comparable. Those fish in there are experiencing something, which urges them to movement and presence with one another. Observing them, I feel my own, and hope that I may empathize with an alien kind of joy.
At any rate, the little dappled guy is more colorful this morning. It’s subtle, but the kind of thing you notice when you know a fish. His fins are rimmed in fine black, his spots are bolder, his gill slits a deeper red. All four of them are glowing bright silver with health. As, keeping still, I watched them, they began to swim in quick patterns around the tank with deliberate formation and exquisite speed, the dapple's head just below the biggest silver's, almost but not quite touching. In their ritual, they switch partners amongst themselves effortlessly, chasing one another in a fashion that seems in no way violent. They're shy fish. When I move even a little, they all stop and face me, eight wide black eyes trained unerringly in my direction. A few seconds more of my stillness relaxes them, and they return to their dance.
Even when I try to be objective, I can't help but see joy in their movements. They are, of course, beautiful; that's mostly why I keep them, after all. But this is a lovely and unexpected reminder that these wild animals, whose ancestors were removed from their native river in a bizarre symbiosis in which they are protected from predators and humans gain a little glimpse of alien beauty, aren't just objects d'art in my living room. They are living, autonomous beings, little ambassadors from another world living their quiet, fishy lives according to their fancy and genetic dictates, whether or not I pay attention.
I can't say what a fish feels, but evolution graced my species with emotions, which motivate me to keep on living. It seems at least reasonable that they know something comparable. Those fish in there are experiencing something, which urges them to movement and presence with one another. Observing them, I feel my own, and hope that I may empathize with an alien kind of joy.
