It was a heart-wrenching sight that evening when I saw my cherish pet, a 20-inch dragon fish - or what is commonly known as Asian Arowana - belly-up and lifeless on what has been his rectangular world of 180-gallon aquarium tank I set-up for him. He's Sam.

My relationship with Sam was not as it had been in the beginning. He's a pet I acquired unplan at the start. A young professional Vietnamese in our neighbourhood decided to sell him before moving to the US; being a fish-keeping hobbyist myself, I jumped at the offer.

Sam was impressively agile when he swims. And with his carefully arrayed golden scales don perfectly on his well-projectiled body that shimmer from underwater like metal of some sort, it was enough to slid out of my sleeve my bargaining prowess and persuaded the owner for a deal to take him home. Not that I was totally sold out to Sam’s previous owner sales pitch claim that upon getting Sam he won the lottery twice, but rather, it was because there’s something different in him.

My basement improvement and half-done others were fruition of Sam’s arrival in the house including the tank’s upgrade and countless over-the-phone haggling from other hobbyists to bring Sam a bigger abode, if not decent. And not to mention, my then frequent shopping at pet stores for his rudimentary wellness necessities. Since his arrival, I put on more knowledge of rearing a specimen like Sam such as the ideal water chemistry for his tank, the PH balance, and right temperature, etc. And that is not everything, I spent more time in the basement than before just to be pathetically mesmerized at his enigmatic ways.

As days passed by, the involvement I had with Sam turned out to be a concern since I thought the time I spend with the "affair" may have had been longer than I was with my wife. Eventually, I felt it was becoming a daily onus on my part. So taxing that I had to practically dragged my feet down to the basement to do a water change, to see whether water’s alkalinity was balance, to prepare his meat diet, etc.

I was never more afraid one night when I saw him flipping and gasping for air, his body almost stiff and splayed helplessly down on the floor, gills oozing with blood and smearing throughout the carpet. He jumped himself off of the tank! After putting Sam back in the aquarium, he swan back and forth from one end to the other as if nothing happened and I could only tell after his acrobatic jump-off adventure, he made a self-reflection on himself: “Next time, I’ll see that I don’t go over my boundary! Whew! That was a real thrill, man!”

He’s always been as inquisitive as I expected him to be. For example, when I came face to face with him the first time, he hovers at one spot of the tank and his eyes fixated on me swaggering in his massive fin tail as if to impress me. I knew we’re going to be together at one point in his life.

He was such a delight. I remember him being jolted out mildly (similar to us when we tickled by someone) when I patted his lateral side of the body by the back of my hand. Surprised and annoyed, he would follow me incessantly from end to end of the tank as if wanting to get even to his aggressor, only he was barred by the tank's glass wall.

Once, I was startled in return when he jumped out of water and snatched a chunk of meat from my hand I was about to drop in the tank for him. I ended up laughing while he lap swims back and forth holding his enamored prize meat on his mouth and his caudal fin fanning gracefully as ever - like a kid who wouldn’t want to share his candy and would enticingly run away. He’s never been afraid to go out on a limb, so to speak, just for the sake of his own curiousity and playfulness. I really miss him for that.

And then there was tear in my wife’s eyes, and mine was glazed to the point of being so as I scoop up his lifeless body from the tank; gills protracted, all fins fanned out, and his body almost petrified. I wrapped him with care, placed in the chest freezer overnight, and sent him away to the garbage truck on the following Saturday morning.

He was not too old to leave, but his demise I suspect was from my end. He was just a fish, but the occasional brief time of hard laughing at his antics as well as us to ourselves were precious.

The lesson I learned from him was eye-opening: in life, taking an extra mile to see what you might end up someplace else is worth the effort. And not to worry if you think you’ll be asking for help, Someone will be there to pick you up. Trust me, Sam was - at one time - in the same situation, and so was I.

I loved Sam, my magnificent fish. He was my buddy.