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The move had been upsetting for the fantail goldfish. It did not like being away from its tank, or in a small container, or being jostled in a car. Once back in its tank, though, it settled very quickly back into its routine—swim, eat, swim. There was now a verdant green beyond the tank’s walls, distorted but pleasant.
Until the first night when an animal emerged from that darkness. The goldfish swam as fast as it could for the shelter of its little castle, but felt something reach into the tank and tear its tail—its beautiful tail!—before the humans came in and chased whatever it was away.
The goldfish was upset about its tail. For a while. It made a few circuits of its tank—castle, bubbler, castle, bubbler—was there something that had happened at the castle? No matter.
Time passed. Swim, eat, swim.
Another night came, but this one felt different. The fish wanted to be out of its tank. Why? Why would it want that? It had never wanted to be out of its tank before. Outside was death. The tank was the world. And yet—the urge grew.
It wanted to—run? Somehow. And eat something different than pellets. Something warm, something bloody. The full moon shone on the tank and a small stream of bubbles emerged as the fish tried to howl with no vocal cords.
Then the tank grew smaller and smaller. Then burst. And suddenly the fish knew what running meant. It ran toward the wall of green—a forest, the thought now came. Another smash and it was free. Running. Wind through fur! What an amazing sensation! Earth and leaves beneath paws. Weight. Weight! The pull of the earth on bones and flesh and fur, the way its body returned and returned to the ground and never floated toward a surface that was no longer there.
It didn’t know how far it ran. The moon shone. It howled.
At last it came back to its starting point—a house, and a porch, and a man with a flashlight, looking at the broken glass beside the back door.
Yes—that’s what it wanted. Food. Blood.
The fish growled. The man swung its light around, saw the eyes in the dark. Shrieked. The man ran, but what a glorious chase. So easy to knock him down, trap him with his paws, tear him with his teeth. There was blood, and viscera.
Tired at last, the fish stretched and curled on the ground, resting its bloody muzzle on its paws. What a glorious night.
The first rays of dawn’s light brought the fish suddenly to wakefulness. It couldn’t breathe!—it couldn’t—
In the morning, the woman from the house found the smashed window and the back door open. She found the flashlight dropped next to the steps of the porch. Panicked, she followed the broken branches and disturbed earth into the forest. And there she found her husband. Mauled in some vicious animal attack.
And beside him, on bloody leaves, was her pet goldfish. Dead.