Much Ado about NOTHING

When I used to work at home (as a a freelance text engineer) I had a little office set up on the top floor of chez MG here. It's still there, actually, but I almost never use it, not since accepting full-time employment as a cubicle jockey (and text engineer) about five years ago. I had a desk, some bookshelves, a computer and printer, a plug-in coffee pot, and not enough clients. All that, and my aquarium, right next to the computer, so I could watch my tropical fishes swim around and around, getting nowhere, not unlike myself. Since I don't hang out in this office space anymore, the aquarium has become rather neglected of late.

The other day, while chasing the floating corpse of a neon tetra-fish abound the tank with a tiny net, it occurred to me that I should move the whole shebang downstairs, to an underutilized table near the kitchen, where the fishes could be admired and better cared for, and where I'd be shamed into cleaning the tank more often, it being harder to ignore by myself and others. So that's the plan for this weekend. I'm going to have to drain most of the water out, so I can comfortably carry the thing down the stairs. And I may or may not need to temporarily transfer my finny friends to a fish bowl.

I'm going to try to avoid doing that if I can. I don't want to traumatize them. Do fish get PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder)? I always think they have no real memory, at least not in the human sense, since their brains are so tiny. But they seem to recognize me whenever I'm close to the tank and about to feed them. They swim close the the glass, as if in agitated anticipation, like pigs when the farmer comes around with the slop. (How's that for an elegant simile?) No doubt the move is going to rock their little world. But five minutes after it's done, they'll have forgotten it ever happened... I think.

There are a few recollections I'd like to erase so easily, but I'm more like an elephant than a fish when it comes to memory.