I think there's something great and generic about goldfish. They're everybody's first pet. (Paul Rudd)

Yesterday my cousin had to face the question of whether to tell her young daughter that their goldfish had died, or to just secretly replace it. I think that this is a question that most parents end up facing. (Except, of course, for those few intelligent parents who just bypass the entire trauma by refusing to have goldfish in the first place.)

My children were 4, 6 and 10 when I went through it. It was right after my divorce, and I was dealing with the guilt/anger/fear that comes along with that situation. Discovering a dead goldfish floating in the bowl almost put me over the edge. We had three goldfish, by the way, one for each child. The kids had received them from their dad, who won the fish during a visitation trip to the county fair. How in the world could I tell my child that while she was in school I had killed the pet their daddy had given her?

Well, I didn't. I took the coward's way out, and ran to the nearest pet store. I even carried the dead fish in a baggy so that I could compare it, thereby ensuring that my child would be fooled. Yes, looking back I realize that perhaps I did not make the right choice. Serious trust issues were involved, and I violated them. But I justified it as not wanting my child to have to deal another loss, and I brought the new fish home.

Back at home, I discovered another fish floating on the top of its bowl. There was no way I could make another trip to the pet store before the kids came home, so I had to face telling them after all.

And it was horrible. The kids were every bit as upset as I had feared they would be. There were tears, and tempers, and we all felt miserable. My son was devastated. The girls were torn between being upset for their brother and glad that it wasn't their fish (the one never knowing how close she had been.) Finally I suggested that we hold a fish funeral, hoping to put some sort of closure to the situation. (Doesn't that sound so much better than just wanting to get it all over with?)

So the three children and I gathered around the toilet (because I was not going to bury a goldfish in the backyard), and we took turns saying nice things about the dead fish.
"He was a good swimmer."
"He was quiet and well-behaved."
"He never made a mess in the house."
"He liked me."

Then my son, since it was his fish, flushed the toilet and we all watched as the goldfish made its final spiraling swim down the drain.

Immediately my youngest piped up with, "That was cool! Why can't my fishie die so I can flush him?"