Originally published March 28, 2005 at 10:34 PM...
You came home with us on a Saturday. You didn't react to us very much, but somehow I knew you appreciated the care that we showed you.
But as the newness wore off, the care wasn't careful. It became routine--a routine that I fell out of. The cleanings became sporadic. The play time disappeared.
Through it all, you became less and less interested. Not just in us, but in the world around you. Perhaps it was because you weren't even aware there was world outside your small home.
Last weekend, I noticed you were starting to fall apart...literally. I went to the store to get you medicine, but just as I had "forgotten" to clean up after you for so many weeks, so did I "forget" to give you the treatment you needed--at least for a few days.
You died on a Tuesday--only 30 minutes after I administered the treatment. It seems I must have been mistaken when I thought the medicine would help. You were gone, and it was my fault.
I wanted to give you a proper burial. I felt it was the least you deserved.
But then I figured, "What the hell. It's just a fish."
So I flushed you down the toilet.
Rest in pieces, little buddy!
Happy
2004-2005
(By the way, this isn't a picture of you. I never took a picture of you. This was the closest thing I could find on the internet.)