I have a betta fish at the office who hates me. He certainly is not the first hater in society whom I’ve encountered, and in terms of a significant threat he is none. However, what causes any being to like or dislike is mysterious. This fish has been in three different aquariums, gotten tons of fresh water, a suitable environment and lots of attention, yet he swims away from me whenever I approach, or hides inside his underwater log and stares at me as if I scare the scales off of him. He has even taken to playing dead.
The other fish in our department has a Napoleon the Piranha complex and engages anything holding food between their fingers. He interacts with anybody, including me.
It is pretty disheartening to the ego when a fish dislikes you for no reason. It didn’t start out that way. In fact, he was all for me in the pet store, never taking his eyes off me. That’s why I brought him back to the office and set him up in style. He has what is touted as the most quiet filter for a betta tank, fresh plastic plants, nice lighting and a full view of office life, with two squares a day. Granted, my corner is not the busiest, but he has plenty of visitors, and a co-worker takes her Sundays during lulls in the day and cleans both tanks.
Of course, she is more attractive than me, so maybe my betta is looks-shaming me.
I feed him recommended food, and throw in occasional blood worm treats. He doesn’t care. The minute he sees me, he zooms into a corner and hides.
He needn’t worry: I will continue to provide for him for life. Afterward, however, I think I will go into terrariums.
Susan's Scribblings the Blog 