This is a photo of a male Veiltail Betta. My eldest grand used his own money to purchase this fish and a tricked out aquarium.  He named the fish Indy and is quite proud of his new friend. 

A few weeks ago, said grandson asked if Indy could ‘vacation’ at my house while he went to Florida on his family vacation. I was honored to be chosen.  He could have asked his friends or cousins or other family members, but he chose ME and I was touched. I had earned a spot on his most trusted “go to” people list!

Indy arrived at my house ready for his vacation in a clean aquarium along with fish food and a thank you note which read:

“Mimi thank you for watching Indy!  2 pellets a.m. and 2 pellets p.m.  Love you.”

I’m not too proud to admit I took pictures of Indy and spent some time staring at and talking to him.  I swear he watched me through the glass, usually giving me his side eye.  I googled “Betta fish” and learned they originated from Thailand’s rice paddies and that betta means “beautiful warrior.” Bettas recognize their human caregivers.  (See, he was actually watching me!)  I was pleased to learn they have a 3-5 year lifespan because the thought had briefly crossed my mind that he could, while in my care, well, you know…

When Garv came home, he saw the fish and asked, “Why is there a fish on my kitchen counter?”

“What kind of grandfather doesn’t recognize his grandson’s fish?  We are watching Indy while the kids are on vacation.”

Shaking his head he asked, “What are you going to do if he dies while they are on vacation?” 

Gasp!  Garv had spoken the unspeakable releasing irretrievably low frequency vibes into the Universe about the survivability of this little fish.

“Go betta shopping, I guess.” I replied flippantly because the first rule of pet sitting is show no fear.  (Actually the first rule of almost everything is show no fear.)

My son stopped by the house and upon seeing the fish said, “Oh mom, you should have said no to taking care of his fish.  If he dies, you will forever be the grandmother who murdered his fish.  You can’t recover from that mom.” 

Even friends who learned of my expanded grandmotherly job description would say things like, ‘uh-oh’, ‘big responsibility’ or flat out ‘what will you do if he dies’. 

I checked on Indy frequently, especially the night Garv grilled shrimp for dinner.  I followed my grandson’s feeding instructions and kept the fish on a regimented schedule of light and darkness.   All went swimmingly until day five, a short twenty four hours before my grandson’s return. 

Indy began swimming nose down, which granted, is better than him swimming a slow backstroke but nevertheless concerning.  I googled, “Why does a Betta swim nose down” and held my breath for results.

I’m no Ichthyologist, but the best I could ascertain was that Indy was suffering from SBD, or Swim Bladder Disorder which was hampering his buoyancy.  SBD occurs after injury, or from bacterial infections or poor water quality. 

But most often it is due to (are you ready?) constipation. Yep, fish constipation. I could relate as I too sometimes suffer from that affliction whilst on vacation.  My options to rectify Indy’s situation included blanching a quarter of a frozen pea and feeding it to Indy (I’m not making that up), adding Epsom salts to the water or putting Indy on a 1-3 day food fast.   I had no peas so that was out.  The Epsom salts treatment required high math calculations involving tablespoons of salt per gallons of water divided by ounces of water.  I don’t do high math, so that option was out. 

I opted for the fast.  I withheld his breakfast pellets, said a little prayer over the bound blue betta and decided to remove the aquarium lid because proper oxygenation is good for every living thing. Right? 

I had to leave Indy to run some errands and as I turned over the ignition on the car, a big fat question turned over in my head.  Initially I answered with a resounding “Nooo.”  But I thought just to be safe I should once again consult google. 

“Can bettas jump?” I mean the last thing I needed was to come home to a dead blue betta on my kitchen counter or somehow even more tragic, the floor! 

This was the first sentence I read in the results:  “Bettas can easily clear the edge of an open topped aquarium if the water level is high enough.”

I ran back into the house and was relieved to find Indy safely suspended, still nose down, inside his bowl.  I snapped the lid back on.  Crisis averted.

The next day my grandson returned home and retrieved Indy.  As of this post Indy is well and once again swimming upright. 

As for me, after pet sitting, seven years of unconditional love, hours of play, a reliable supply of bubble gum and ice cream sandwiches, I am certain I have officially earned my Masters Degree in Grandparenting.

What’s a boomer to do?  If you are a grandparent, do everything you can to be on your grandkids’ favorite “go to people” list.