I haven't posted for quite awhile, and I've missed it a bit. Hopefully, this will be the start of me getting back on track with blogging. I should warn you, however, that it's a bit of a departure, as it's more sentimental than humorous. You've been warned!
This past weekend, the Thomas family lost one of their own. The smallest member of the family, he was a lovely golden orange, with a beautiful flowing tail that trailed behind him impressively as he swam about in his fish tank. My son had been absolutely bewitched by him since the moment we acquired a medium-size fish tank and its two occupants a year or so ago. The larger of the two was dark in color--nearly black, in fact, with orange highlights--and had bulging eyes; this one, Owen named Donkey Kong. The smaller of the two fish was his favorite, probably because of his brilliant color and his light-colored eyes, which made him appear more expressive. Owen named him Togepi, after his favorite Pokemon, that particular cultural phenomenon being his obsession of the moment. The boy delighted in watching his fish swim around in their tank, and took his responsibility for feeding them very seriously, carefully feeding them precise amounts at appropriate intervals. He would frequently stand on a little stool, with his face quite close to the glass, so he could tell Togepi what a good fish he was, and he would expound upon the many virtues of his fishy friend to family and guests alike. You can imagine, therefore, the dismay with which my wife and I noticed late last week that Togepi was not doing well. He began laying on his back on the floor of the fish tank, and by Friday evening, his movements had become quite sluggish. By late Saturday, he had slipped this mortal coil, leaving his remains resting in the colored pebbles on the floor of his watery home. After putting the children to bed that night, I removed Togepi from the tank, placing him in a small cardboard box on a bed made from an old, soft rag. I was surprised at the emotion stirred within me by this simple procedure; poor Togepi still looked so lifelike, and he was such a beautiful little creature. I was seeing him through my son's eyes, and feeling the faintest echo of the sorrow I knew the boy would be experiencing the next morning. I covered Togepi with his makeshift blanket and placed him in the fridge to preserve him. I was struck by the silliness of it--here was the body of a goldfish, sitting in a refrigerator mere inches from leftover fish nuggets which our entire family consumed on a regular basis with great enjoyment, and yet we would be mourning the passing of this one little morsel as though he were a member of the family. I guess the bottom line is that, to Owen, Togepi was not really a fish at all, but a friend.
Anyway, the next morning, after breakfast, I sat the boy down and broke the news to him. He took it bravely at first, but I could tell the reality of it wasn't registering with him. Then came the moment I had been dreading: I asked Owen if he wanted to say good-bye to Togepi. He nodded, smiling the same smile he uses when he has just lost a game but is trying to be a good sport. I had already removed the box from the fridge; pulling back the cover, I showed Owen the little body it contained. He waved to the fish, said "Bye-bye, Togepi," and burst into tears. After he had a good cry, we got dressed, and the boy, his sister, and I (mom was at work) had our little fish funeral. Owen helped me pick the spot in the back yard where we would bury Togepi, and helped me dig a small hole. When I had asked Owen if he wanted to give Togepi something special to bury with him, he had gravely presented me with a homemade card, which I tucked into the little
cardboard coffin. In the end, he couldn't bear to watch me bury his friend; instead, he shuffled over to his swingset a few feet away and draped himself over one of the swings, with his face averted, until it was over. No words were spoken, I simply placed the tiny casket in its tiny grave--feeling somehow silly and sad at the same time--and smoothed dirt and mulch over the hole so that it blended in with its surroundings. I held Owen quietly for awhile, then; he didn't cry, just put his face on my shoulder, until, in a burst of inspiration, I explained to him that, when a person dies, their friends will often go to someone's house or to a restaurant to share some food. I suggested that the three of us head over to Dairy Queen for Star-Kist ice cream pops (which I find disgusting, but the kids love them), at which point he perked up a bit. Sometime later, as we entered the Philomath Dairy Queen, he asked me, "Daddy, why do people go to restaurants when someone dies?" I explained to him that it gives people a chance to talk about the deceased and share their good memories of them. He took this information in silently. A bit later, with two of the five points of his Star-Kist pop consumed, he looked at me and asked, "Daddy, can we talk about Togepi now?" And so we did. It occurred to me then, as I told Owen, that Togepi must have been a very happy little fish, to have such a wonderful boy to look after him.
The fish tank seems kind of empty now, without Togepi. Donkey Kong seems lonely to me; we'll probably get him a new friend soon. I'm sure it will get easier every time we lose one, until eventually it's just no big deal anymore. That's part of life, I suppose, learning to cope with death, not getting too attached to one's pets, moving on. Still, I hope that part of Owen will always be the little boy who loved a fish.
