How to Kill a Catfish

I.
The best cut is a clean straight line. There was a demonstration of how to hold a scalpel,
which disappointed me because it didnt include those slashing samurai moves Ive seen on TV. I
mixed up my high school experiences with the cartoons Ive watched, thinking that the things I
do would also be cool enough to render a comical life. Instead, my hands trembled at the thought
of cold, metallic tools pressed firmly against my palm later on that day, the life of an organism
jeopardized by me.
The evening before, I prepared anything that could help, to restrain myself from
panicking in the middle of the experiment. Terminologies ran through my mind, flashing like a
wide array of cards: dorsal, pectoral, operculum, peduncle, nares each word a curse about to
strike a part of the catfish. If the fish could talk, it would have sworn vengeance on me, and I on
the lab worksheet. The process flowcharts were the key to getting the whole experiment right,
but confining myself to such strict methodology was something I never liked.
My labgown also came from the laundry already neatly pressed before being tucked
inside my bag and wedged in between notebooks. Proper etiquette was the only reason why the
labgown needed washing before it got stained by catfish blood. To save up detergent and laundry
expense, lots of us used to lend our labgowns to each other; the additional smell of sweat and
cheap floral cologne were considered non-negotiable together with other unsanitary scents.
II.
My education in a public high school focused on hands-on applications, such as paper
chromatography, ethanol distillation, and catfish dissection. Four years of Biology provided me
an introduction to the medical culture. The subject took up the space that was meant for Arts and
Music; it was some heritage of a science education I wish I didnt have to learn. Rules in the
context of laboratory procedures came in one by one: wear this, do that, start here, end here. I
prefer to call Biology my personal asphyxiation, especially when the teacher gives out a new
handout about Comparative Anatomy followed by a task to bring a catfish to school next week.
My head receives a trauma before the dissection could even happen.
My groupmate unfortunately misunderstood the teachers instruction for the experiment.
Confusing fresh with alive, he proudly claimed that ours was still thrashing in a bucket. A
catfish would be a tough one to pin down on the table, and no one was up for the challenge of
holding it with bare hands. I, with the unpopular opinion, was into customization: if I had to do it
my way, I would have set it free to lash its tail on anyone within a five centimeter radius. To
compensate for my lack of enthusiasm in the group effort, my friend asked me to paralyze it.

How I was supposed to do it, I did not know. In my notebook, only signals of a
seismograph were present my handwriting between intervals of napping. My groupmate asked
me not to make excuses.
My friends from the other classes said theyd help. Unlike us, they had their catfish iced
to death in the market stall. They kept their promise by asking upperclassmen how they managed
to keep a catfish unconscious in a small ice box. But upperclassmen, I figured out when I became
one myself, are two things worth noting: 1.) theyve been through the same tough experience,
and 2.) theyre the prank experts.
My friends are the ones whom I could never decipher whether they were joking or not.
Despite that, I had to listen to what they had to say. The best way, according to them, was to
leave it fried under the sun.
III.
We had a few hours before our Biology class and we were stuck with the most absurd
way to paralyze the catfish. I guess it wouldnt be so bad if I blamed our teacher for not telling us
what to do exactly with a live one. My groupmate came out of the dorm with the catfish
swimming in a bucket stolen (or borrowed, I never knew) from the dorms restroom, half-filled
with water, the only sign of pity for the fish.
Comparative Anatomy, I realized, bridges life, from prehistoric intellectual beings to
catfish to modern science students. I wouldnt put it past that subject comparing the life of a fish
to my own.
In one swift motion, I tipped the bucket over the asphalt, all the murky water spilling out.
The catfish followed that miniature current to catch a swift kiss from the rough surface of the
schools track oval, before finally turning on its back. Tasting dirt in its mouth, it flinched the
moment it knew water was nowhere near its gills. It flipped to the other side, the heat of the sun
no less than it was before. Flipped itself again, and again; the world became its own frying pan.
I left about ten minutes of its fate to a slow, excruciating agony in the middle of the
asphalt, under the sun. It reminded me of the sacrificial lamb, sinless and innocent. The catfish
was suffocating, which was ironic since everything around it was breathing. A couple strolling
around the oval, probably talking about what they will wear to prom, had their moment
destroyed the minute they saw the catfish - a comic relief to break their awkwardness with each
other. Lowerclassmen started snickering from the second floor windows and the security guards
were forming questions in their minds as to who would do such a prank. But all of them had seen
weirder things than a literal fish out of the water, as expected in a high school heavily focused on
science.
IV.
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Had I truly remembered how the catfish should have been rendered unconscious on the
dissecting table, I would have spent a decade studying more complex systems after high school.
Our batch in future reunions could be graphed in a pie chart with 80% doctors-in-training, 20%
patients-in-waiting. I dislike the idea of being part of the larger sector. That culture of science
defined us, and with that culture we shared also came the language. Coming across the word
epistaxis meant getting that hardbound dictionary from the shelf before; my friends and I would
then be using it in normal conversations. Our common background containing the best nerd jokes
Ive ever heard would be replaced by technical jargons only those in the medical field would
understand. It would be hard to cover my eyes when the scenes from Greys Anatomy would be
mingling with my reality. A TV series about the lives of medical doctors is fascinating, especially
when it shows how mundane their profession really is, but I couldnt imagine myself talking
about other peoples whims while slicing a patient open.
There would be no escape from the responsibility of imparting death to the living when I
would have to watch outside the operating room, the knife driving down the patients stomach. I
would have to spend sleepless nights more often than I could remember with my only company,
a heavy medical textbook.
V.
My friends and I took turns watching over the catfish from the gazebo, in between
cramming schoolwork, geeking out on who among us could break the 40-second record in
solving the Rubiks cube, and mastering another set of pen twirls - the epitome of either boredom
or creativity mustering inside every student in our school. Until it was obvious that the catfish
wasnt moving anymore, I never went near it, except when a bird happened to dip its beak into
the flesh. My friends laughed at the idea of more birds coming around, but I wasnt in the mood
to give a likely story on how a bird actually took the catfish away a few minutes before our
dissection experiment. Besides, nobody would buy it.
After driving the bird away, I placed the catfish back in the bucket. The bell rang as soon
as I finished cleaning, extinguishing my hopes that there would be some unexpected rally outside
the school. That would have been the best class suspension. I handed the bucket to my
groupmate as I put on my labgown above the uniform and went inside the laboratory.
VI.
If there was one place perfect for a haunted house setup, it would be the Biology
laboratory. Dozens of preserved animals were on display behind glass shelves, their final pose
petrified for years to come. The gallery was both an inspiration and a horror to anyone interested
in the field of zoology. Jars ranging in different sizes lined up against one corner near the sinks,
all containing different specimens. A pigs heart from a previous dissection experiment. A dead
python perhaps caught wandering in the school grounds. A rat poisoned then forced inside a jar
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too small for it. Then, the largest container in the collection: a human fetus curled on its knees. If
the crucifix was the sentinel of every Catholic school, ours would be the fetus.
My hands ran through the tools on the tray on top of the dissection table, the forceps and
the pair of scissors clinking against each other. The scalpel had a streak of blood on its blade; a
student from the previous class must have forgotten to clean it. Without hesitation, I wiped it
clean with the hem of my skirt.
VII.
It was hard to imagine how the catfish could have been swimming in the tanks of
restaurants, now being sliced open not for Chinese cuisine, but for scientific endeavors. The
scene manifested itself in front of me: dozens of catfish laid out on every dissecting table. It was
the same setup everywhere I looked. Some were checking out the various parts weve discussed
in class already. A group was complaining why the organs of their catfish were black when they
should have been light pink or yellow. The reason: saltwater poisoning. My diet for that day was
the effect of me losing my appetite.
On an agitating note, the scalpel of our group broke. I was in the process of incision when
the blade got dislodged from the handle. I hit the skull as soon as the flesh revealed a long thin
slit underneath the length of its body, the perfect imitation of my teachers description of a proper
cut. The innards spilled out too soon, and my hands reeked of blood. I caught my breath when
the sight of blood triggered my fear for it. The eyes and mouth of the catfish were both wide
open, allowing for the escape of a silent scream before I took the life out of it.
The scent of putrefaction lingered in the air while the organs started to associate
themselves with the rottenness. The rest is a blur: caught a glimpse of the heart, a few beats
counted until it finally stopped thumping. Never would be wanting fish eggs for dinner when I
saw some of them embedded underneath the muscles and tissues intermingling inside it. The
final scene: the body of the catfish exposed in front of me. The process was indeed quick and
easy.
I managed to hold myself together when all the parts matched the words running around
my mind. My groupmates were just beside me, one furiously scribbling down observations on
the worksheet, the other attempting the best art rendition of catfish anatomy in real life. The two
boys promised me lunch the next day if I would be the one to do the dissection. Thanks to them,
I found out that contradicting my own beliefs is a thrilling self-proclaimed adventure.
VIII.
My group finished as soon as the first bell rang. I returned the broken instrument to my
teacher, apologetic, because the school will have to endure some months short of one scalpel.
The administration will have to undergo a rigorous process with the government authorities until

another set of scalpels is sent. In the Philippines, a pizza delivery takes minutes, an ambulance
for emergencies takes hours, and a box of supplies from the government takes months.
Upon seeing the blade of the instrument broken from the handle, I think my Biology
teacher knew what went wrong. Despite her unguessable age, she held tight to that vast amount
of information she gained in all those years of studying. I promised myself the next time I meet a
veteran teacher, Id regard my utmost respect for an individual who has went way beyond the
foundations of science.
Calmly, she asked me whether our group had paralyzed it properly. I just looked back at
her, my memory catching what she said on the lecture, a few minutes before she dismissed us.
Youre supposed to crack the skull. Her words came back to me, a few hours too late. I think the
catfish just got grilled too much under the sun.