“Why aren’t you dead yet?” asked my 22-year-old brother to my 15-year-old goldfish.
Two days later Fishy committed suicide.
I “won” Fishy from a State Fair carnival game when I was in middle school. It was one of those games where you throw a dime in a cup and you win a fish. She lived in a glass bowl and thrived over the years. Every time you’d walk by she’d come over and make little fishy faces at you. Whoever said goldfish only have a five second memory never met Fishy.
I remember scolding Chris when he said those harsh words to Fishy, but didn’t think much of it after that until my mom said to me, a few days later, “Jess, do you know where Fishy is?”
Well, the response was pretty obvious. “Um, isn’t she in the bowl,” I said with a chuckle. Duh.
“Um. No,” she said, “Fishy isn’t here.”
I realized this mystery was something worth getting off the couch for, so I joined my mom as we stood there and looked at an empty fish bowl. The bowl, mind you, is sitting on a four-foot entertainment center. We searched around it – a good five inches on either side of the bowl – but didn’t find Fishy. Then we decided we needed to look behind the entertainment center with a flashlight. My mom stood on a chair and peered over. No fish.
Then I told her to check against the wall to the left of the center. I knew she found Fishy by the way her shoulders caved in.
In all the years we had Fishy she had never jumped out of her bowl. Ironically, two days after Chris told her she should already be dead, she jumped to her death.
We got another goldfish the very next day, but it just sits there at the bottom of the bowl. It’s the lamest fish I’ve ever seen.
And, just to let it be said, Fishy did not ride the porcelain slide, she was given a proper burial outside.
RIP, Fishy. RIP.