The first time I heard an urban-legend about a goldfish, the kind that survives for years beyond life expectancy, I was five-years old. We had a neighbor in Los Angeles named Josephine. She had a thick South African accent, called her husband “Lover” (Lovah) and did very theatrical things like wear all black and do a dance and sing as she sprinkled fish flakes into their goldfish's bowl, explaining to me that was why it lived so long.
“Goldy is impossibly precious, a carnival fish, meant to last only a fortnight and here she is, seven years later."
Just last week we had to find a home for Charming Baby’s goldfish (no name!) that he had for over a year. He romanticized that Fish was a baby caught in our Koi pond, but I seem to recall it was a feeder I bought for 15 cents to pacify him on one our trips to the pet store. First Born Prince had been amassing toads, frogs, salamanders, and turtles, always needing to stop for another aquarium, or crickets or meal worms. CB wanted his own pet to care for and somehow we ended up with one I swore wouldn’t make it past a fortnight.
I always expected Fish to be a floater when I walked into Charming Baby’s bedroom, but he would faithfully be there, swimming to the top of his tank any time I cast a shadow on his home. His behavior surprised me, more endearing than I cared to admit. The damn thing was supposed to die, not become yet another living thing for me to love and worry about.
When I told Charming Baby we couldn't move Fish to California with us, he announced that he was returning him to his family in the Koi pond. Before I could explain that would be sealing the pet’s fate, he scooped him up and ran to the pond and set Fish free.
We have only a few days left until the moving truck pulls away. I keep walking down to the back pond, hoping to see Fish alive and swimming to the surface for a feeding.
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