![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Before we had a cat, we had goldfish. The first one lasted a long time. His name was Herbert. The second one was Ignacius - Iggy for short.
Iggy was a striped goldfish (black and orange?) who swam diagonally. I used to pop out of bed every morning and go to the fishbowl to feed him, exclaiming "Good Morning Iggy!" Somehow, this little goldfish made me very happy. Maybe it's because I never really had pets before. (Well, there was my hamster whose name was "cat" in Chinese, because I had learned a few words of Chinese in my social studies class in high school). Maybe it was because I knew that Iggy didn't really have long to live.
Fish aren't supposed to swim diagonally. But Iggy didn't know any other way. Maybe he didn't have enough strength to swim horizontally.
One morning, as usual, I leaped out of bed to go feed Iggy and . . . he was floating at the top of the bowl. Dead. I don't remember the events going on in my life at the time, but I was pretty devastated by the death of Iggy. We had only had him a few days. Less than a week, I think.
I didn't want to flush him down the toilet. So, I buried him in a flower pot and put a piece of wood in to mark it. I also put some of the gravel from his bowl on the top of the pot. I think I tried to grow something in it but it didn't ever work.
When we moved, I carried Iggy's grave with me to our new place. I put it on the porch railing.
Stop. My husband just read this and said that the goldfish was named Herbert. We flushed Iggy apparently. I buried Herbert. Ok, the feelings are still valid and the same.
I'll continue.
Anyway, this morning - probably two years at least since Herbert died, I went outside to photograph the sunrise and saw that Herbert's grave had been smashed into pieces and was in the garden. I assumed it was the wind or something. But it had been on the porch rail for at least a year and hadn't fallen over. I froze where I stood. I wanted to cry. I didn't run inside - I went on to photograph the sunrise.
I went inside to go back to bed and told my husband that Herbert's grave was smashed into pieces and asked him if he knew about it. He said yes and that he had knocked it over with the handlebars of his bike while leaving for work a few days ago.
I didn't want another goldfish because I had gotten so attached to Herbert. I guess I got the names confused because I figured I had completely sworn off buying a goldfish after he died. "I" comes after "H" so I figured I had the names right.
Anyway, I'm sad that his grave is gone and that's why I'm writing this. I want to remember. The only thing I have left now is the little Viking ship that was at the bottome of his bowl. I think I'll put it on my altar for a few days.
What's the point of getting another goldfish now that we have a cat? I mean, he'll just play with it and eat it while we're at work someday. And I adore our cat Alexander. He's the best cat in the whole world. How the hell am I going to handle it when Alexander passes away? I don't want to think about it.
Maybe I'll find this funny in a few days or weeks. Maybe someone else will. But now I can always remember my goldfish when I read this.
R.I.P. Herbert
Iggy was a striped goldfish (black and orange?) who swam diagonally. I used to pop out of bed every morning and go to the fishbowl to feed him, exclaiming "Good Morning Iggy!" Somehow, this little goldfish made me very happy. Maybe it's because I never really had pets before. (Well, there was my hamster whose name was "cat" in Chinese, because I had learned a few words of Chinese in my social studies class in high school). Maybe it was because I knew that Iggy didn't really have long to live.
Fish aren't supposed to swim diagonally. But Iggy didn't know any other way. Maybe he didn't have enough strength to swim horizontally.
One morning, as usual, I leaped out of bed to go feed Iggy and . . . he was floating at the top of the bowl. Dead. I don't remember the events going on in my life at the time, but I was pretty devastated by the death of Iggy. We had only had him a few days. Less than a week, I think.
I didn't want to flush him down the toilet. So, I buried him in a flower pot and put a piece of wood in to mark it. I also put some of the gravel from his bowl on the top of the pot. I think I tried to grow something in it but it didn't ever work.
When we moved, I carried Iggy's grave with me to our new place. I put it on the porch railing.
Stop. My husband just read this and said that the goldfish was named Herbert. We flushed Iggy apparently. I buried Herbert. Ok, the feelings are still valid and the same.
I'll continue.
Anyway, this morning - probably two years at least since Herbert died, I went outside to photograph the sunrise and saw that Herbert's grave had been smashed into pieces and was in the garden. I assumed it was the wind or something. But it had been on the porch rail for at least a year and hadn't fallen over. I froze where I stood. I wanted to cry. I didn't run inside - I went on to photograph the sunrise.
I went inside to go back to bed and told my husband that Herbert's grave was smashed into pieces and asked him if he knew about it. He said yes and that he had knocked it over with the handlebars of his bike while leaving for work a few days ago.
I didn't want another goldfish because I had gotten so attached to Herbert. I guess I got the names confused because I figured I had completely sworn off buying a goldfish after he died. "I" comes after "H" so I figured I had the names right.
Anyway, I'm sad that his grave is gone and that's why I'm writing this. I want to remember. The only thing I have left now is the little Viking ship that was at the bottome of his bowl. I think I'll put it on my altar for a few days.
What's the point of getting another goldfish now that we have a cat? I mean, he'll just play with it and eat it while we're at work someday. And I adore our cat Alexander. He's the best cat in the whole world. How the hell am I going to handle it when Alexander passes away? I don't want to think about it.
Maybe I'll find this funny in a few days or weeks. Maybe someone else will. But now I can always remember my goldfish when I read this.
R.I.P. Herbert
