“He looks better than he has for days,” I said. “The medicine must have worked; he isn’t covered with fungus anymore.”
“Yeah, his color is almost back to normal,” my college-age son agreed, as he bent over the goldfish bowl. “Yes, he’s actually looking pretty good, almost healthy.” There was a pause “It’s too bad he’s dead.”
“Yup,” I said.
Indeed, Mr. Fish was floating belly-up, definitely dead. And we felt sad, reluctant to scoop him out. After all, he had been a member of our family for more than eight years. We had become as attached to Mr. Fish as it is possible to become attached to a fish. Also, he was the last of the childhood family pets.
We reminisced about the day my son brought the two tiny black fish home from the pet store. They had seemed happy in the fish bowl. Then, about a week later, one of them disappeared. The other one, however, looked decidedly chubbier. I guess he didn’t want company.
Mr. Fish continued to surprise us. He changed colors as he grew, growing from black to a drab silver-gray. Then, one morning, we woke up to find that through some amazing fish alchemy, he had turned a beautiful lustrous gold. He continued to grow until he reached “small-pan” size—a term I’m sure he would have hated.
Unlike other aquarium fish we have had, Mr. Fish was not a quiet fish. Glubs, gurgles, and loud splashes became part of our normal household sounds. He could actually splash water an impressive distance, which the cat found annoying. In fact, the frequent nose-to-nose confrontations between fish and cat were usually more distressing for the cat than Mr. Fish. We would all miss him.
Having enjoyed our remembrances and paid our respects, my son and I had buried Mr. Fish in the rock garden and covered him with his colored gravel and sea shell. That was about three years ago.
I had almost forgotten, until last week. I was doing some spring cleaning in the rock garden when I came across the colored gravel and sea shell. Then I remembered—not only Mr. Fish, but the others, too. In the corner of the front yard, behind the blue spruce, is Gribble’s resting place. Gribble was our first Guinea pig. She was gentle and soft, and she giggled when we petted her. Bruce was our last Guinea pig; he’s buried under the flowering almond bush in the back yard.
I also remembered why the soil is so rich and easy to work with in the flower garden. That was where the rabbit pen had been, where Cream and Midnight lived. Well, they lived there most of the time. Cream was tame and contented. Midnight, however, was the Houdini of rabbit-dom. No matter how we rigged the pen, about once a week a neighbor’s phone call would alert us to the present location of our escapee—usually their flower or vegetable garden. Our neighborhood became accustomed to members of the Sackett family running through their yards with a long-handled fishing net.
There was also Maggie, our English basset hound, who was patient and easy-going, a perfect companion for young boys. Then, along came Charlie, a yellow stray cat, who found a home and grew old with us. Of course, there were the usual “found” temporary pets, like frogs, lizards, horned toads, and the usual collection of insects.
As the years went by, our boys grew up; the family pets grew old and died. It is the way of life. Our family pets bring an abundance of blessings to us, and they leave behind a legacy of warm memories. Our family is enriched because they were part of us.