There’s a saying that goes, “The first to come is the last to leave.”
In the case of our fish, Vlad, he was the last to come and the first to leave.
“Mom, come here,” my son bellowed to me from across the house.
“What?” I bellowed back.
We had just returned from a weekend at the beach, and I was trying to sort out the dirty clothes from the truly disgusting wet and sandy dirty clothes.
“It’s Vlad,” he bellowed again. “He’s not swimming.”
Not swimming could be merely resting or perhaps, just deep in thought. Unfortunately, when I peered into the tank, it was immediately clear that not swimming was not alive.
“I’m really sorry, Kiddo.” I said putting my hand on his shoulder. “Vlad has gone to that great big fishbowl in the sky.”
“You mean he’s dead?” he asked.
We both looked at the decomposing fish lying on the bottom of the tank. He really wasn’t merely dead: He was clearly most sincerely dead.
“‘Fraid so,” I said sympathetically.
“He had a really long life for a carnival fish, though,” I assured him. “He lived for 10 months. That’s like 100 in goldfish years.”
“What should we do?” he asked. “Should we bury him?”
“Um, maybe not such a good idea,” I said.
The last time we had a pet goldfish and buried it in the backyard, some animal (and I’m not naming names, Riley), dug up the box and ate the fish.
“How about we have a funeral in the bathroom?” I suggested.
“You mean flush him down the toilet?”
“I prefer to think of it as a burial at sea,” I said.
I sent my son off to work on an appropriate eulogy and then I informed the rest of the family of the sad news.
“Well that’s one less animal we have to feed,” said my husband.
“I’m glad it wasn’t my pet,” said my daughter.
I shook my head at the two of them.
“Your sympathy overwhelms me. Come on, we’re going to have a funeral.”
“For a fish?” asked my husband.
“Glad it wasn’t my pet,” my daughter repeated.
“Can’t we just feed him to the dog again?” asked my husband.
I whacked him.
“Ssh! Vlad was a part of the family and I think we should give him a proper sendoff, OK?”
