Bad Day at Black Pond

The weather has made a fool of me.

Usually we clean out the pond late in the summer and then again in the fall after the leaves have fallen. But usually once the leaves have fallen the weather is chilly cold so if we don't get to the leaves right away the consequences are minor.

The problem with leaves in a pond is that the decomposition process uses up the oxygen, suffocating the fish. In cold weather, the decomposition process is slow and the fish are slipping quickly into a winter state in which they use a bit less oxygen. The combination means that we can take our time getting to the pond, a few days or a week if we need it. But the temperature this year went warm right after almost all the leaves had fallen. Before we knew it the days were in the high 60's and touching 70, maybe higher where the pond is, now that the sunrays could shine through the leafless branches and be absorbed in the black plastic of the pond.

Our pride in our breeding goldfish, the beautiful multicolored babies and the glamorous black moors ended in sorrow in the warm November sun.

All but two died, and the fate of those two is uncertain on this sad day.

We found them gasping, and the large gold and black male floating on his side in a most unfishlike way. We pulled the big guy out and laid him, still, on the log fence. For a minute I considered taking his picture. He was still beautiful, brightly colored and nearly 5 inches long, but it seemed indecent to invade his death in such a way when our misjudgment had killed him.

His name was Spot, and he was a character. He loved to eat and had grown from little more than a 1 inch minnow to his gargantuan size in just 2 years. He reveled in his size, using it to bully the other fish, chasing the little fry and midsize minnows that he spawned this summer, seeming to human eyes, to be filled with pleasure at his life in the little black pond.

We buried him in the swamp, a place befitting a fish. We didn't cry, he is a goldfish after all, but we miss him even though our eyes are dry, and we feel terribly guilty for forgetting basic biology... living things must breathe.

Quickly we emptied the pond of decaying matter. We had no idea there was so much. It seemed as if the fish must have had no space to move below about 8 inches of water. No wonder the poor things gasped. One by one we found the fry and the midsize fish we had so enjoyed this summer. Maybe, one or two still lives, hidden behind a pebble or crouching under an errant decaying leaf, but we can't find them, only the two big guys, Bogart and Callie, are in sight.

We worked all day, pulling out remains of orange leaves, bailing and rinsing and aerating with a spray hose until the water was clear and the bottom was visible. Callie was flashing in the sun, always a showoff, in his clown scales, he flashed bright orange and white between the bubbles. But Bogart was subdued. Pitch black against the black pond, he was hard to see and not moving any more than he had too.

We left the pond as the cold rain began to fall when the first cold winds of winter overtook the warm pseudo summer day. Tomorrow we will clean it up, now it looks like trauma room after the patient has left. Water pits the sand, rotten black leaves litter the rocks near one edge. The pond was not quite finished but now it looks abused and forlorn and the two remaining fish just look exposed in the newly clean water, seen under the dark gray sky.

Discussion is useless. Perhaps Callie and Bogart will make it til spring, perhaps they won't even hold out till the pond freezes, there is never anyway to know.