Today we buried another of our fishy friends, Floaty. He was recently preceded in death by P’s beloved pet, Splashy. I never wanted these fish, but they ended up becoming my responsibility (or they would have died years ago). I made sure to care for and feed them, but I was resentful. I certainly wouldn’t have been sad if one of them had quietly gone belly up. And then I almost killed Splashy, P’s betta. I was horrified.
In September I traveled to Mexico leaving the fish in my son and husband’s care. Let’s just say I wasn’t surprised when I received the email that one of P’s goldfish died and was unceremoniously flushed down the toilet. P took it hard.
Months later when Splashy, P’s absolute favorite fish, started to look sick. I surprised even myself in my efforts to save his life. I stayed up late looking for remedies on the internet, drove to the store early in the morning to buy supplies needed for my last ditch effort, and poured way more energy into saving his life than I would have imagined possible. When he did die, despite my best efforts, P was destroyed. We couldn’t get him to stop thinking about it until I channeled his grief into painting a rock to mark Splashy’s place in our rock garden. Once we did that he started to feel better.
A few weeks ago Floaty started to look a little slow and maybe sick. I babied him, hoping he would make a comeback. After a rough few days his tail ended up stuck in the air filter. He didn’t even try to free himself, he just floated there stuck. I turned off the air pump, gently removed him from the filter and put him in a separate bowl of water. He died about a half hour later. We buried him in our rock garden right away, but P isn’t in a hurry to paint his rock and I’m not going to push him to say goodbye to his pet. This time, I think I’m more broken up than P is. What is it about these unwanted fish that get under my skin and work their way into my heart?
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