Column: A betta fish can’t be found

My 4-year-old grandson, Judah, won a betta fish in July in a contest of skill and daring at the Orange County Fair.

OK, I’m not certain what kind of contest it was.

Anyway, Judah named his pet Nacho Cheese Sauce. Uh, don’t ask.

We’re not certain if Nacho is a boy betta or a girl. Presumably, we’ll never find out. Mother Nature has devised a scheme whereby the betta population is controlled.

Betta males are notorious for attacking fellow males and fighting to the death. Dude, if I’m a betta male and you swag before me … it’s on! Females are pretty much anti-social.

Our betta guy seems rather mellow, but I avoid flexing near his bowl.

So, it appears that Nacho C. Sauce will be living alone in his bowl with just a few plastic rocks to keep him (or her) company.

He seems down with that.

Nacho now, for a reason I don’t understand, resides with Judah’s grandma and grandpa (that would be Hedy and me). I don’t know how that happened but Nacho’s become our grand-fish. He lives in a small bowl in the living room, next to a large window. Our little buddy, we’ve discovered, loves sunshine. And he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. He preens … a lot.

It’s been my observation that he’s not a fan of darkness. When I turn out the lights at night, he sorta sits there glum-faced (if indeed that can be called a face), staring into space.

I’ve done my homework on betta fish. It’s a species — also known as the Siamese fighting fish — in the gourami family and is native to the Mekong basin of Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand.

They’re highly territorial and aggressive. I’ve tried to impress upon Nacho — in the strongest possible terms — that he’s living in my house. I’m lord of this domain.

I’m not sure he gets that.

I’m in the midst of convincing Mr. Sauce that I’m alpha male here — Big Dog. He, by definition, is betta. Beta. Numero Two.

My ace in the hole? I outweigh him by about 10,000 to one.

Prior to Nacho’s arrival at our home, my past experience with OC Fair-bred goldfish led me to believe that the lifespan of a fairgrounds fish is days. Judah’s mother, our daughter Melissa, never won a fish with a lifespan longer than the run of the fair.

Those goldfish were trundled home in plastic baggies, lived briefly, and ended up as floaters. They were unceremoniously tossed into the toilet and, well, given a flush into eternity.

They then experienced what I imagined was an incredible journey down a maze of underground pipes and tunnels (much like the sewers of Paris) with a final kerplunk near the River Jetty.

Alas, Nacho is still with us … two months since leaving the fairgrounds. That’s a record in our family. Betta, I’m told, live three to five years in captivity. This is beginning to look like a long-term relationship.

That begs the question. How old was Nacho when Judah carted him off? He could have been six weeks — or six years. Major difference.

Well, Nacho old chap, we might as well get to know each another.

I never realized that fish are smart and have personalities.

Check this out: Whenever I walk over to Nacho’s bowl, he comes over to my side and begs for food. Truly. His mouth begins to move in a glub-glubbing fashion. (Of course he could be experiencing cramps from swallowed air.)

Nacho possesses a healthy appetite and sometimes jumps for his food. I think that’s called “breaching” in the lingua franca of the orca. Tiny Nacho can breach with the best of them.

By the way, he swims and frolics in the finest Arrowhead Mountain Spring Water available.

I’m growing attached. I see a tank in his future.

Just a second, I need to check something. Hey Nacho buddy, are you all right? Just taking a moment off? Are you floating on your side because you want to get papa’s attention?

Nacho?

Hedy, is the bathroom in use?

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.