Today, a faithful friend died.

After two years and nearly four months of dedicated companionship, my blue betta Fizz succumbed to illness.

With seeming suddenness only a couple of days ago, he began to show symptoms of lethargy and disorientation. He stopped eating, eventually began listing to his right side, and has seemed to throw himself spasmodically around his cage amid long intervals of stationary floating in various positions.

Brief research suggested it might have been swim bladder disorder, some kind of relatively common ailment that tends to cure itself after some days. Maybe he didn't have enough strength left to ward it off; two and a half years is a passable lifespan for a betta. Alas, whatever the explanation, it turned out too much.

Fizz was the only living creature under my care and custody; before him I'd had just one other betta whose longevity and attachment were not nearly as great, and never any kittens or doggies (despite my longings) due to allergies. Even though he was a low-maintenance and not-terribly-engaging companion, Fizz was nonetheless somebody I said hi to a couple of times daily when I fed him, and changed his water and scrubbed his place out every week.

I cared for him; his passing makes me sad, and gives me occasion to contemplate death and loss, and loneliness and impotence and love. I am going to miss him, for what he was, and what he represented.

Sleep well, little buddy, and may you find comfort and much joyous bubble-nesting in a more comfy place.