Alas, my mother is extremely allergic to pet dander. So, if we ever want her to come visit (and we do) we are not at liberty to get indoor cats or dogs. (The mere mention of even a ‘hypoallergenic’ breed is enough to make my mother break out in hives.) So, the kids were elated when at long last we took them to each pick out their own fish (the baby excluded). And the excitement continued as we filled the tank with rocks, fake plants and eventually Rosie, Fred and Bones (Naomi’s, Elijah’s and Isaiah’s fish respectively).

As the newness wore off, as it always does, I of course was left to care for the fish. So, I can’t say I was deeply disappointed when a couple months later we had a ‘floater.’ (It was unfortunate that it was Naomi’s Rosie, since she was seemingly the most attached and definitely our biggest animal lover.) We held the ceremonial ‘buried at sea’ via the toilet funeral; a basic rite of passage for every child with indoor plumbing. There were a few tears shed by my daughter, and many questions by my two year old son, Elijah. “Where’s Rosie?” he started.

“Rosie went bye-bye,” I answered trying to convey a message both gently and absolutely.

“Is she coming back?” he continued.

“No, she’s not coming back,” I replied.

“Where’s Rosie?” Elijah asked again. “Is she coming back?” He was two, confused, sad and relentless.

“Maybe,” I stated (contemplating the idea of a replacement).

“No she isn’t! She’s dead!” Isaiah, in his nine year old wisdom and total disregard for sympathy, chimed in.

After a few moments things began to calm down and I proceeded to clean the fish tank. It was late, and I was tired… so I was doing a short cut version without removing the remaining fish. It was this sort of (admittedly irresponsible) dumping the water and adding some more, dumping out more water, wiping away algae, then adding more water, etc. And then to my complete surprise I dumped Bones down the drain of what happened to be the garbage disposal. (I know.) Still in shock I yelled for Owen, who I thought would heroically stick his hand in the drain and retrieve the fish, but instead -to my amazement, flipped the switch and started the disposal! He muttered something about not wanting the fish to suffer, feeling completely confident in his decision.

So I’m standing there in total disbelief of the chain of events that just transpired and Isaiah, who no longer unattached and watching from behind, starts crying and yelling “Murderer!” (Bones was his fish mind you, so now it was personal.)

“Me? Your father is the one who started the garbage disposal,” I reasoned.

“You dumped him down the drain!” he continued through tears and frustration, “Murderer!”

Now, I understand that losing a pet is upsetting. But I am almost certain that his disappointment was as much (if not more) due to the fact that Elijah’s fish was the last to survive; because, everything is a competition to that kid. Everything. And in my defense, I would never do anything like that on purpose. After all,  I’m the only one who fed those fish and certainly the only one to ever clean that stinky tank. And we keep that foul thing right on my kitchen counter!

But at this point, there was nothing I could do about it. It was what it was.

Sadly, the loss had a an impact mostly (communicatively anyway) on Elijah and at random times, like in the car on the way to the grocery store, he would ask “Where’s Rosie? She in the toilet? She coming back?” And every time I would clean the tank he’d remind me “No put Fred in the sink, ok mom?” …As time passed, however, the threat seemed to fade and eventually things went back to normal.

Unhappily, I am reminded of that story as yesterday the time had come for Fred to move on to deeper waters. As we bid farewell to dear old Fred I’d like to say “I did my best to take care of you and regain the trust of my children. Thanks for the memories. You were the last fish swimming… And thank you for clearing up my counter.”