Dorothy

Last week Spencer murdered our goldfish.  And I was an accessory.   I should start off by saying just how amazed I am that a fish – a small, delicate, living creature – survived in this house for two years.  Grammy got him for Log on the last visit she made before “The Great Shoulder Smashing Motorcycle Crash of 2k6.”  And despite some minor trauma, she was still doing okay on Tuesday when I, coincidentally, had a discussion with Mom about her surprising longetivity while cleaning her bowl.

And that’s where I made my big mistake.  I left the green fish scooper thingy (hope your head isn’t reeling from all the technical speak.) in the sink, and plunked myself down for some computer time.  And that’s when tragedy struck.  He was sneaky, I was absorbed, and it all boils down to no one to blame but me.  But twenty minutes later I heard the unmistakable <thwack> of tank gravel smacking furniture.  And there he was, little green net in hand, going to town flinging gravel all over Log’s room.  And Dorothy was dead.  I’ll probably never know the exact cause of death – whether he took her out to “play” or possibly “stirred” just a little too hard – but Dorothy went to that big toilet bowl in the great beyond.

The following is a transcript from my conversation with Log when I picked him up from the bus later that day (Thankfully, I was able to clean the very disturbing crime scene before the end of his kindergarten day.):

“Log, Honey, I have some sort of bad news.”
“What is the bad news?”
“Well, Dorothy died today.”
“How? Why did she die?”
“She died of old age. She was almost two, and goldfish usually only live to be around two.” (Yes, I lied.)
“Oh. Can I see?”
“No kiddo, I already flushed her down the toilet.”
[Looks disappointed.] “Oh. Okay. Mom, can we get another fish?”
“Sure honey, we can go pick one out tomorrow.”
“Or instead of a fish, we could get a dog.”

Clever boy.  Interestingly, I bought two replacement fish on Thursday – both goldfish, although one was orange and the other gray – whom I promptly named “Mick and Molly” to avoid yet another Elmo copycat.  Molly was floating Friday morning and Mick was dead today.  It seems as though our season for fish is over.  Maybe we should get a dog…

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