Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Contains some strong language.
I wish I could say that all of my problems were behind me. I hoped that an 80% water change would fix the issue and what remains of my shrimp would be swimming around, happy, healthy and active. When I peered into the bedroom aquarium though, my enthusiasm was quickly diminished.
There on the gravel lie another tiny blue shrimp body, and as I moved to net it out, another drifted up in the flow. “Eleven” I whispered to myself grimly, there was just one left.
I opted for another, slightly less dramatic water change, just 50% this time. I set up another drip acclimatisation using a jug, some air tubing and a clothespeg. As simple as it was, I was quite pleased with my contraption and just how well it worked. Every now and then I popped back to top up the water feed.
Sadly though, before I was finished, I lost two more shrimp. Maybe it was only eight over the last few days, but now it was all twelve in total. All that was left, I was sure, were the three that I had to start with.
I flopped onto the bed for a while, sad and defeated at the situation. I’d done all that I could to prevent losses, and yet still, I’d lost all of the shrimp that I’d ordered anyway. To be honest, it was kind of heart-breaking to net out all of the tiny little blue bodies, all curled up and lifeless. Even if I shouldn’t, I still blamed myself regardless. I’ve not had much luck keeping shrimp and I’ve done everything that I was supposed to do. Everything until now that is, apart from the drip acclimatisation during water changes.
Is that what has really been killing them?
In a way, it felt daft to cry over shrimp. Most people would cook shrimp without a second thought, and yet here I was, crying about them. It’s a wonder by now how I haven’t driven myself vegan – I can’t touch prawns since keeping shrimp, and I can’t help but think pigs are a bit like dogs, too. Damn my empathetic nature!
While I waited for the next lot of water to drip back into the tank, I decded on exercising little Hugo. Bless him, he seems much brighter today and oh so eager to play. As he took up his position to catch the first ball though, I noticed something on his leg.
Is that… blood?
“Umm, what’s that on your leg there, buddy?” I asked, as though Hugo would answer. Dog accosted and upended, I could confirm that it was indeed blood.
Fortunately, despite a clipping of the area and some gentle bathing, I was able to confirm that it was also superficial. Most likely, he’d jumped up at the shelf unit to fetch a tennis ball, and he’d caught himself on something in the process. When I looked, sure enough, part of the vinyl trim was peeled back.
I tried six times to dress and bandage the wound, all competely in vain. If nothing else, then I can add “bathe the dog’s leg” to my list of to-do’s for the next week. On the plus side, the satellite reception in our living room is much better than usual.
It never rains.