Mr. Aro Left Us A Number

The day our Arowana died I felt a hollow somewhere inside. 

Seems like when we share space with another living thing, we become familiar with its life and habits and we develop a kind of emotional attachment to it.  That's why I refer to him as Mr. Aro.  He's more than just a fish.  He's a Golden Arowana.  At times I wished he could bark and wag his tail, perhaps like a Golden Retriever.  But all I got was his enthusiastic dashing around, expecting me to feed him whenever I took down the container of fish food.

That morning when I raised the shutters, opened the glass door and stepped into the shop I had an awful feeling.  Mr. Aro no longer swam over to greet me, waiting eagerly for his breakfast. 

I'd become accustomed to his eye-balling me and following me around every morning as I moved about switching on the lights, the air-cond and the PCs. 

But that morning I looked at his tank and my heart sank.  He was floating deadly still, pale looking, tail down and head hanging behind some pipes and cables in a  far corner of his tank.  I didn't switch on his tank light.  (I wanted to take a picture but couldn't bring myself to do it).

As I was extra busy that day, with Jeff and wife away attending a seminar, I went about attending to business first.  Then I sent Jeff a message saying, 'so sorry, the fish is dead'.  He was too busy to read my message, so the next call I got from him, after finishing work discussions, I told him. 

He called later and told me to wrap it up in plastic and keep it until he came back from the seminar.  He wanted to have a last look.  After all, he was the one who raised Mr. Aro from a fry of 3 inches.  That was 10 years ago.

I wrapped Mr. Aro in plastic, went out and bought half kilo of coarse salt, 2 bags of ice and packed him in a box and left the box in the back of the shop over the weekend.

The strange thing was, a few days before Mr. Aro died, he did a curious thing.  He thrashed around in the tank like crazy.  Fearing that it might have been a short circuit, I switched off the power supply to the circulation pumps and light.  (Of course, there's no such danger.  Fishes can't get electrocuted, I was told).  In the dimness of the tank I noticed a 4-digit inscription on his left gill plate.

Well, I'm no punter.  I don't gamble.  Besides, most of those 4 digits can be a number ranging from 0 to 9.  Your guess is a good as mine.

R.I.P. Mr Aro.  Wish you a better existence in the big river in the sky.