We received news last evening that our grandson King is in mourning over the death of pet goldfish, Phoebe.
I can't tell you what kind of tragedy this is because it's really more kabuki theater than it is true mourning.
While Edwin and I are simply mad for our grandson, Phoebe's passing was not the shocking news that it was portrayed as.
According to our daughter Paige, who is King's mother, there were great dramatics when King went to his room and found the limp, lifeless body, floating in the fetid water that was her home for the last year. Frankly we are amazed that dear Phoebe lasted as long as she in the murky, mirthless bowl that was her home.
"I'm amazed he even looked at the bowl," Paige quipped.
You see, our grandson isn't one who is preoccupied with details - he is a broad thinker - a big picture junior executive type. An accountant to be? We think not. A future CEO of a multinational conglomerate? Yes, as long as he has a good right hand who is steering the ship, so to speak.
So naturally, when King said he wanted a dog last year, I my heart sank. The poor animal, whatever it would be, would starve for affection and a meal under King's tenure as his master, and the whole idea was for the boy to get a pet is so he could learn to take care of it. So Paige - who is a clever girl in her own right - said that if King could keep a gold fish alive for a year, they would revisit the dog. (I for one thought it would have been a better idea if they would have given King a cactus - you know something with some staying power.)
The fish, named Phoebe, managed to keep King's attention for all of ten minutes. Paige knew the poor fish was in danger, but she stood her ground, and I am happy for that. It would have been easy to step in and act as a buffer between the fish and it's ten year old owner, but Paige really held firm.
Of course, now she is hysterical with grief because she is an accomplice to a "coyicide", but this is a lesson in strength that both needed to learn. Being a parent isn't all it is cracked up to be. That is why God invented nannies. I suppose if my mother were still alive I could afford to go into a tizzy as well. Oh, well - since I am the senior adult, it falls to me to keep my head.
Funeral Services for Phoebe were held immediately upon discovery, so thankfully we didn't have to fly back east for it. That would be utter nonsense. I'm sure if it had been a hamster or something like that our attendance would have been requested, and there would be the wringing of hands just shy of the end from Imitation of Life. The corpse received the goldfish equivalent of cremation; Paige did used the Sure-Flush in the guest room for Phoebe's final swim.
When I go to church on next Sunday I am going ask my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, that my grandson learn from this - that life is sacred in every form, even if you can't throw a stick and have said "pet" bring it back to you. If a pet cannot do more than waive a fin at you, well, then embrace that finny friend.
Bon voyage, Phoebe. May your life, and death, be not in vain.
I remain,
Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish
