 Writing about the death of a beloved pet isn't a pleasant experience, but it can be a beneficial part of the grieving process for bereaved family members. Therefore, I will courageously attempt to control my emotions as I write a few words about a dearly departed goldfish named "Getting Big" or "G.B." for short. That fitting name came to me one day when I walked by his fishbowl and exclaimed, "WOW! This fish is getting big!" I've always had a knack for creating clever, memorable names and nicknames. Thanks to me, our happy home includes a cat named "Getting Fat," a dog named "Getting Stupid," an absent-minded dad named "Getting Senile," and a belligerent teenage son named "Getting On My Nerves."
G.B. was more than just a goldfish—he was a pal. He was a confidant. He was "one of the guys." Determining the gender of a goldfish isn't one of my many talents, but I'm pretty sure that Getting Big was "one of the guys" because he enjoyed watching televised sports, eating cold, leftover pizza and wearing wrinkled flannel shirts on weekends. He also enjoyed perusing the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.
Last week, our beloved G.B. unexpectedly passed away. He was two years old, which is about 24 months in human time. I knew something was wrong when I saw him slowly swimming sideways. When a goldfish swims sideways, he is trying to tell you that he needs medical attention. Swimming sideways is a fish's way of saying, "Hey! I'm not feeling well! In fact, if you don't do something fast, you may have to flush me down the toilet!"
I immediately tried several emergency procedures in hopes of saving Getting Big. The time-honored technique of gently poking the victim with the eraser end of a pencil did nothing to improve his condition. An emergency water transfusion and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation also failed. I briefly considered using an electric shock to revive G.B., but my wife (a.k.a. Getting Angry) said that putting a frayed extension cord in a fishbowl was the stupidest idea she had ever heard.
Suddenly, I remembered G.B.'s wacky sense of humor. Maybe this was one of his practical jokes. Maybe he was just having a little fun at our expense. I tried to expose his little prank by telling him his favorite joke, the one about the traveling tartar sauce salesman, which never fails to send him into fits of fish laughter. But Getting Big didn't even giggle. I then allowed Getting Fat to hungrily paw the top of the water. Under normal circumstances, G.B. frantically swims in circles whenever he sees a cat. This time, he didn't care. Then, speaking in a loud voice, I said, "It's too bad that G.B. will never meet his beautiful new female companion!" When Getting Big didn't respond to that one, I knew he wasn't joking.
As I was pondering my next move, Getting Big's condition went from bad to worse. He suddenly turned completely upside down and floated to the top of his bowl. His fins and gills were completely still. There was a peaceful expression on his face, as if he were seeing his dearly departed mother beckon him to a much better place, a place where goldfish never swim sideways, a place where fishbowls are bigger than the sky, a place where cats are not allowed.
As Getting Big's lifeless body bobbed to the side of the fishbowl, my mind filled with troubling questions. Did somebody in our family unknowingly cause this tragedy? Did Getting On My Nerves feed him too much? Or, even worse, did Getting Senile forget to feed Getting Big while Getting On My Nerves was away for the weekend? Those terrible questions tormented me for several minutes, until I realized that I could go to a nearby pet shop and buy another goldfish for a quarter.
Nevertheless, I truly miss Getting Big. I miss watching his hungry little lips protrude from the water when I sprinkle fish food into his bowl. I miss watching him frolic around his ceramic underwater castle and swim playfully over the multi-colored gravel. But most of all, I miss laughing at him as he tries to put on a wrinkled flannel shirt.
Email your condolences to mark.mayfield@attbi.com.
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