A fish-surgery class at the University of Melbourne
Credit: Glenn Hunt
"When I tell people I'm writing about fish medicine, their reaction is almost always the same: 'Why not flush the sick fish and get a new one?'" Actually, for several reasons. First, there are the money fish. "I've worked on several fish worth between US$30,000 and US$50,000," Lewbart once told me. These are the fancy koi that earn their living on the fish-show circuit, garnering big prizes before retiring to a life of profitable reproduction. "I examined one in Japan whose owner had turned down an offer of US$200,000," Lewbart says. That's what he calls a Big Fish. "People will spend thousands to fix them." But not all koi are show koi; many are what Lewbart calls UPFs: ugly pond fish.
Which brings us to the human-fish bond, and people who gasp if you mention flushing fish, because they swear their fish have personalities so big they win hearts. I heard stories of Zeus, who weighed two pounds but dominated the house cat by biting onto the cat's paw and yanking the confused feline into the tank head first. There was Sushi, the "gregariously affectionate" koi with recurring bacterial infections. And Zoomer, the "koi with a vendetta", who shot out of the water at her owner, David Smothers, and broke his nose - something his pet Ladyfish never would have done. She'd just cuddle with him in the pond and wiggle when he kissed her. David spent thousands trying to save Ladyfish when lightning struck near his pond, creating a shock wave that broke her back. He paid for X-rays, CT scans, chiropractic adjustments and spinal surgery, then spent weeks in the pond, gently holding Ladyfish's tail during physical therapy. Nothing worked, and tears still well up when he talks about it.
The human-fish-bond people don't understand the money-fish people. "They don't even name their fish," Bonita Wulf says, sounding shocked. The organisers of the Singapore International Fish Show recently announced a fish-adoption initiative, declaring that "fish have their lives, and they have feelings, too," so if fish don't win shows, it's "more humane to bring the fish up for adoption," rather than flushing them down the toilet. Others train fish to fetch and dunk basketballs. "Some of fish personality might be a feeding response," says Dr Julius Tepper of the Long Island Fish Hospital in New York. "But so is a lot of what we interpret as affection from cats."
Sushi's owner doesn't buy that. "You have to meet Sushi to understand," she told me. So I went with Roberts to Marsha Chapman's house thinking, "OK Sushi, show me this personality of yours".
"Sushi's in here," Chapman said, leading me to the 1.8 metre-long, 570-litre tank in her family room. Chapman is a warm and motherly special-education teacher in her 50s who looks you in the eye and sounds as if she's talking to a room of primary schoolchildren. "Hi baby," she cooed. "How's Mama's girl?" Sushi darted to the surface of the tank and started splashing frantically. "That's right, show us how you wag your tail." And Sushi did (though a wagging fish tail looks just like a swimming fish tail to me). "She's just like a dog that way," Chapman said. "If I could hug her, I would."
Aside from Sushi's size (60cm), her looks are unimpressive. Mostly white, a few orange spots, short non-flowing fins, trademark carp whiskers. Some might call her a UPF, though not around Chapman, who reached in the tank and patted Sushi's head. "Look who's here, Sweetie," she said, "Say 'Hi' to Rebecca."
