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Cycling a 10 Gallon Aquarium with a Single Mystery Snail

Mystery snails are quite the poopers. As it turns out they are also incredibly hardy. I had some notion of that first bullet from Googling. We discovered the second through the process of cycling our 10 gallon tank.

With the help of lots of water changes, loads of Seachem Prime, bottled bacteria, and some highly prolific floating aquarium plants, our mystery snail emerged healthy and unscathed. I don’t see much advice about how to do this on the internet, so here’s the data I took over 30 days. This process was not without some hand-wringing and significant elbow grease. But it was also a joy to get to know this fascinating creature while we got our tank set up just right for sensitive fish. Perhaps a snail-less and fish-less cycle is still less stressful. Choose the method that is right for you.

We used:

• Seachem Prime – water conditioner
• API Quick Start – bottled bacteria (for ammonia)
• Tetra Safe Start Plus – bottled bacteria (for nitrites)
• API Master Test Kit – monitoring water quality
• Cuttlebone, eggshells – for hardening up and buffering water
• Sponge filter + extra airstone, inert planted tank substrate, tap water
• 10 gallon tank with Nicrew LED light
• Java Moss, Telanthera Cardinalis, Dwarf Hairgrass (introduced at start), and Frogbit and Red-Root Floaters (introduced mid-cycle)

Lack of internet resources about mystery snails in brand-new tanks meant we were not sure what to expect. If anything, I thought this would be a slow and gentle cycle considering the bioload of a single snail. No.

The poop came fast and hard. This guy seemed to poop about twice as much as he ate. Starting about day 3 after introducing the snail, we began to detect trace ammonia in the water. The ammonia concentration rose rapidly over the next two weeks until it reached (and probably surpassed) the limits of our test kit. About two weeks after we first saw ammonia in the tank, we detected our first trace nitrites. For us, the nitrite peak, contrary to most experiences we encountered online, was shorter duration than the ammonia peak, and we began to detect nitrates only 4 days after the first nitrite measurement. This may be attributable to our generous use of Tetra Safe Start Plus, known to contain more nitrite-eating bacteria than just about any other brand.

How we kept the snail safe during this process:

• Daily water changes of ~20% (up to 3x daily during the peaks!)
• Nightly dosage of API QuickStart and then Tetra Safe Start.
• Dosing Seachem Prime for ammonia and nitrite detoxification. Each water change was accompanied by a Prime dosage measured to the full tank volume. For the few peak-ammonia days, this added up to about 3x dosage per day at the max.
• Floating plants. Introduced on Feb. 8 and proliferating almost immediately, the timing is suggestive that the floating plants really helped take the edge off the nitrite peak. The floating plants, which I do need to thin out every few days, actually to this day continues to keep nitrate at very low near-zero levels.

Meanwhile, we were learning from the snail’s behavior, shell quality, and levels of activity how to care for him. When I did a particularly large water change and he went into his shell for some time, I measured the pH and found it had dropped about 0.3. From then on, I tracked the pH daily and added cuttlebone to keep the pH stable. The cuttlebone and eggshells also seemed to help the snail’s new shell growth take on a more solid yellow color, rather than the pale, somewhat translucent look it had before.

One of the downsides of cycling the tank this way: we couldn’t really step away. We took our first overnight trip on Feb. 15, when the ammonia peak had passed, and the nitrites had already dropped nearly to zero. Even still, we worried a bit. But we came back, and the tank was in better shape than when we left. A few days later, it was ready for fish.

Brought in 6 neon tetras on Feb 21. Did not see any ammonia, nitrite, or nitrate spike. Waited one more week, added 3 more neons and 3 rummy nose. Today, we have the mystery snail, a nerite snail, our fish, and a bunch of pond snails and ramshorn snails that hitched a ride on the plants.

The process was not without its heartbreak. Stupidly, I added 2 ghost shrimp two days after introducing the snail, thinking shrimp to be hardy creatures. Couldn’t be more wrong. They died right away when the ammonia reached 0.5 ppm. But overall, if you have the energy, and you want the tank cycling process to be a hands-on learning experience that you share with an interesting, hardy creature, you can consider doing things this way. It worked out pretty well overall and we had a good time.

Our tank today:

I-131 Treatment for Cat Hyperthyroidism

After her near-death experience last summer we got a diagnosis.  Not a rare disease, just one that slipped under the radar.  Hyperthyroidism.  And not a mild case, either.  I believe the first time she was tested, her thyroid hormone was about five times the normal level.

For about two months we managed it with pills.  First we hid it in her food.  Then when she stopped eating her food entirely we tried to pill her.  When that became such a hassle that we didn’t know how to instruct our cat-sitting neighbors, we got the medicine in a topical form, put it into her ear once a day.  This turned out to be the only sustainable way to medicate this cat.  We did the math, figured it would cost us about $600 a year.

The vet recommended radioactive iodine.  There were a few places that administered it in the Boston area.  She was healthy otherwise, a good candidate for the treatment.  She is 13, and they said, 95% of cats are cured with one treatment, and they go on to live 5 more years on average.  Secretly, I felt like she would go on to outlive those other cats too.  So after some agony, it was decided that we’d drop the $2000 on this cat for the I-131 treatment.

We chose Angell Animal Center in JP since they seemed to have the most consistent results.  I was appalled by how hard it was to find testimonials online.  So, I suppose the only reason we thought that this center gave us the best chance of success was their assurance that since they took images of every cat’s thyroid tumor before administering the medicine, they’re able to better calibrate the dosage.  And maybe one Yelp review.

We dropped her off at the center during the height of the first wave of the pandemic.  Everything was locked down.  There were few cars in the parking lot.  An aide came outside in a mask when we called and picked up our cat at the door in her carrier and we watched her watch us recede slowly before the doors finally slid shut.

They sent us updates every day.  In total she was gone about 5 days.  We had separation anxiety almost as bad as the cat.  It was always a relief to see her little sad face.  

But the treatment didn’t work the first time.  Not for us.  There was no glaring indicator early on that it didn’t work.  Her energy level was about the same.  Her appetite little reduced.  There was no profound personality change or weight gain.  When I drove her to get her blood checked it was a hot day and she panted in the passenger seat.  Her thyroid levels came back only reduced by about 20%.  The vet recommended a second treatment.  She would have expected at least a 50% reduction at this point if the treatment had been successful.  Our own vet said she’d never seen a cat not respond to the I-131 treatment before.

We were assured another approximately 95% of patients is cured in the second round (only 8 out of 4000 cats still hyperthyroid after a second treatment).  We would pay only for the syringe full of I-131 this time around.  After some discussion, weighing her odds and her suffering, we decided to give it one last try.  So in July, we packed her up once more in her carrier, and shuttled her off to be locked up for another 4 days.  

This time a friend lent us a Geiger counter.  So we started tracking her radiation levels every day.  You know how they tell you to keep the cat inside for 2 weeks but to keep what she poops and pees during this time locked up for multiple months?  We suspected that this is because the half-life of her radioactivity is actually much shorter than the half-life of I-131 itself (8 days).  In other words, she eliminates the I-131 from her system faster than it decays on its own.  

The data was a bit hard to collect because she would not hold still.  Turning off the clicking sound helped us get measurements close to her face.

We learned a few things from this data: The cat is quite radioactive the first few days after returning from the vet. The half-life of I-131 elimination from her system appears to be around 3-4 days. The 2 week quarantine seems to be timed to coincide with your dosage rate dropping below that of a typical daytime flight (~3 uSv/hr), assuming the cat is in your lap making maximum contact with your body.

We had quite a scare after this round of therapy. About 10 days after her treatment she because extremely lethargic and began to refuse food and water. We had been warned that there may be a bit of a shock as the body returns to normal thyroid function. But being an older cat, both vets were quite worried about this development.

She slept most of the day and would come out at meal time, sniff her food, lick her lips a few times and return to her nap pod. We tried all kinds of expensive cat food. We bought single-serving catfood in a jar. We tried catnip. We gave her anti-nausea meds as prescribed by the vet, we tried an appetite stimulant, and finally, after almost 2 days of not eating or drinking, it was Costco rotisserie chicken which we went out specifically to acquire (thanks Costco) that finally piqued her interest.

I’ll say that she eats a LOT less now, about 6 more weeks after her second round of treatment, than I’ve ever seen her eat. But she has kept her weight up (8.3 lbs now!) and she sleeps normally and is generally behaving like a significantly less hyper version of her former self.

She’ll go in for her blood test in a week or two. At that point, I’ll update this post with what’s hopefully the last chapter of this saga. Wish us luck!

@jplicksthecat on Instagram 🙂

UPDATE: The kitty’s thyroid levels tested at around 1.0 ug/dL, which is on the low end of the 0.8-4.7 reference range. She is also healthy in every other respect, liver function, kidney function, weight, etc. She is lower energy than she used to be before the treatment: cuddlier, sleeps a lot more, but fundamentally her little personality is still what it is. Looking forward to healthy years to come!

Love Poem

It’s not that you didn’t love me. You just

loved less of me than there was.

So that even these years later

I find myself smaller,

though the love was plenty.

Dentist Chair Meditation

When I visited my new dentist for the first time (good ratings on Yelp, walk-able distance toward Porter Square) I had just started meditating. It was a warm, dry day. And I was eager to try out a new attitude towards discomfort.

I had read that there were two kinds of discomfort. Physical discomfort, like the feeling of a metal pick scraping your gums, and emotional distress, like the anticipation of pain. One is reaction to the other, but so automatic that it seems to occur simultaneously. And because of that, they are experienced as intertwined, inseparable — as one event.

But it’s an illusion. In a small space of time, in fact, a whole sequence of events takes place. First, there is an experience of physical pain as the pick scrapes a sensitive spot on a back tooth. There is an involuntary recoiling from the sudden discomfort. Then a mental update: this pain is possible (likely to recur). From here, the experience takes on new colors. Fear rises, hardens into a strong aversion. The body tenses in anticipation of more pain. The pain comes again, as expected, but is experienced as far more unpleasant.

They say that emotional distress is really the oxygen that fuels the flames of intense discomfort. Most of us rarely experience physical pain without the accompanying emotional aversion (at least while sober). But, in theory, it’s possible to separate the one from the other.

The key is to find the gap.

I entered through an unmarked front door in a multistory single home. I was greeted by an empty reception desk, an old wood smell, and a cool stillness undisturbed by the busy street traffic outside. It was a place that reflected perfectly my state of mind — at least, the state of mind I wanted to have.

Between the sensation of physical pain and the onset of emotional distress, there is an imperceptible gap. And it is this gap that the mental practices target. In one practice, attention is turned onto the pain itself. In another practice, attention is turned away. These opposing strategies can achieve the same end because what matters is the quality of attention, not where it is placed. Aversion to pain feels like attention, just as ingratiating might feel like listening. But the attention is tense, self-referential.

What we’re after here is a quality of attention uncolored by judgment. If focusing on the discomfort, we ask its shape and texture, how the sensations change with time. If focusing away from the discomfort, we might note how relaxed and pain-free the rest of the body feels, how the chest rises and falls with the breath. The attitude, in either case, is inquisitive.

It’s a simple mind trick: contacting the observer. It seems that our minds can observe and react, but not both at the same time. If I am observing fear, then there is a part of me that is not afraid. A gap opens up just big enough to breathe in. And in this gap lives a stronger version of free will than most of us are used to.

It’s obvious that I don’t enjoy visiting the dentist. I have sensitive teeth and cleanings have always been a test of endurance. But now as I laid drooling, staring into the white light with a plastic tube suctioning itself to my tongue, I noticed soft piano notes wafting in through the overhead speakers. I wondered which patients would find the choice soothing and which deeply ironic.

I myself shifted between the two extremes depending on the quality of my sustained attention. For brief moments at a time, I could cool my mental discomfort to the level of the classical music. Then, like an involuntary muscle spasm, the old fears would grip me, and the constellation of familiar anxieties and aversions would glow hot and urgent.

A dentist’s chair turns out to be a good place to practice controlling the mind, turning off the automatic greed and aversion circuits. Because here, we don’t have the burden of choice. It’s difficult to make the argument that struggle serves a purpose at the dentist’s office. That by our struggling, we will somehow architect a different — better — destiny.

The struggle in our daily lives, on the other hand, is much more ambiguous, much more difficult to surrender.