A Fond Farewell to Fishy

In the end, a lesson was learned. My elder son's understanding of death was solidified, and I'd like to think he would be better for it. Death is unavoidable, and it comes when it will. Sad though it may be, it happens.

My husband and I went on vacation last week. Before we left, we dropped our fish off at our neighbor’s house, our dog at his parents’ house, and the kids at my parents’ house. Then we left. We returned Friday night and stayed at my parents’ house. The boys came in bright and early (two hours earlier as far as we knew) Saturday morning, excited to see us. After breakfast, my husband drove out and picked up our dog. By mid-afternoon, we returned home. Sunday afternoon, I called our neighbor to arrange when I could come pick up the fish.

Sunday evening, when they returned home, they discovered Fishy floating at the top of the bowl. They offered to get us a new fish, but I reassured them it wasn’t necessary.

I feel bad. They must feel some degree of guilt (hopefully not too much) about the fact that Fishy happened to die while he was with them. Of course we don’t blame them. Why would we? They are wonderful people, wonderful neighbors, and good friends.

I’m not trying to imply that a goldfish’s life is worthless; although my son won Fishy at a Halloween party at his school, I’m the one who named him (unintentionally. I wanted my son to name him and must have referred to him as Fishy once, which my son then assumed was his name – although my son gave him his full name of Fishy SwimAround Fishy Engineer), fed him, and cleaned his bowl. He was, for all intensive purposes, my pet. And the fact that I forgot about picking him up until late Saturday night made me feel horrible (if I won’t remember the fish, who will?).

I wish I had some cool anecdotes about Fishy, some fond memories to share, but he was a fish in a bowl. No grand Nemo adventures, no close calls where he fell down the drain. I suppose you could say he led a sheltered life. Other than the day he came home, the time my next door neighbor fishsat in October (when my husband and I went to Paris) and then a week ago when I walked him to my neighbor two doors down, he stayed in the house, traveling only between his spot on the center of the mantel in the living room and the kitchen counter when I would change his water. That’s it. If you want to see an interesting fish story, I would recommend “Finding Nemo” or “Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo.” But a household pet fish only offers so much excitement. That’s kind of the point, right.

Wow, please remind me not to get a job writing eulogies. Fishy’s name was on our holiday cards last year. He was part of the family, albeit for only four and a half months. He was orange, and he would swim away from net when I tried to take him out to change his water. I had a small plastic jar where he would stay while I cleaned his bowl. He would swim around in rapid circles. I’d say he acted nervous, if a fish is capable of these emotions.

In the end, I don’t know if my reaction to death – Fishy’s or anyone else’s for that matter – is enlightened or just callous. But perhaps that can be better gauged by how my son reacted to the news.

The next morning, we were in the bathroom, my younger son was playing at the toilet (can it really be considered toilet training if he won’t stay put?), sans diaper, and my husband was sleeping. That was when I chose to tell my son that Fishy died.

I watched his face go from stoic to tearful as he sobbed – loudly – genuine tears, saying “Fishy, Fishy.” I implored him to quiet down while trying to diaper the little one, and I tried to comfort him without once dismissing his feelings. I should have, I realized, picked a better time and place.

“It is sad that he’s dead,” I told him, “but we have to remember the good times. You know that pink plastic thing that was in his bowl?”

“You mean the plant?”

“Yes, that’s it. Well, you know how I had to put pebbles in the bottom, but one time I must not have put enough because it floated to the top, and Fishy was so confused?”

He laughed at the memory and finished brushing his teeth.

Downstairs, when my husband woke up and joined us, we discussed Fishy some more. I told him the full story. Our neighbors changed the water Saturday. On Sunday, they fed Fishy then went to one of their parents’ houses. When they returned in the evening, they discovered that Fishy had died. My son commented that they shouldn’t have left him alone all day. We pointed out that we do the same when we go to their grandparents’ houses and that they feel terrible that Fishy’s time came at their house.


Tuesday night, we all gathered in the dining room, and I let my son have a chance to say goodbye to Fishy.
“Goodbye, Fishy” was all he needed to say. He and his brother then headed to the living room, and we overheard the following conversation.
Seeing his younger brother heading to the living room, my elder son said, “Fishy died. You can’t see him anymore.”
My younger son, learning to talk, likes to repeat what his brother says. “Died. Fish.”
To which my elder son responded, “Fishy’s never going to wake up.”