Yoga Fish

Fish yawn. At least mine does. Or maybe what I saw this morning was a silent scream for help. His water has been very cold lately. I don’t know how she’s survived this long. Also, I don’t know his sex. Her name is Betty. Or Bert. I keep her bowl by the kitchen window, where the air temperature plunges at night. So I’ve been wrapping my scarf around the fish bowl before I go to bed. But last night, I forgot. This morning, as I stood before the sink, gnashing my teeth over the dirty dinner dishes, Bert’s frozen eye caught mine. At first, I thought her liquid world had gone solid. Amidst the icy haze, Betty seemed lost in thought. His gills and fins were still. I shrugged and went about my business, intending to leave the corpse for my wife to dispose after I’d left for work. Retrieving a cereal bowl from the depths of the dishwater, I disturbed a large pot, upending its lid and creating a ruckus. Already forgetting Betty’s perceived fate, I apologetically glanced toward him. In that instant, she ruffled her feathery fins, turned to face me, then gave me his profile again. And yawned.

I’m told that gills consist of blood-filled filaments. When fish pump water across their gills, CO2 is released and O2 is absorbed. When a fish yawns, it forces water to backwash across its gills, cleaning off whatever might be blocking the filaments. Also, sometimes fish yawn to stretch their gills. You know, just to stretch. Who doesn’t like a good stretch?