The goldfish dies.
I have never cared much for the goldfish,
emotionally-speaking, and its owner, my daughter, has never cared much for it
in the practical sense either. But there
is something rather touching about a small, lifeless fish floating like a
misplaced apostrophe at the top of its tank and your daughter’s tear-stained
face asking you what can be done.
What can be done? Not
a lot for the fish, I’m afraid; I think we may be a little bit beyond that
point. But the pump and the filter might
fetch something on eBay®. And as my
husband suggests, if we’re quick buying the chips it might just do for lunch.
In the end we bury it in the garden and hold a short service
of thanksgiving for its under-valued, much put-upon little life, especially the
first few days when it was a source of excitement and rejoicing, but obviously
not the later years when it started making a mess of its tank and demanding to
be fed whilst we were on holiday.
At least this didn’t happen on Halloween night. I’d have had trouble explaining myself then.
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