No one knew how old the office goldfish was when it headed to the great fish pond in the sky last week. It had started as a prize in a carnival game when my son, Ellis, was small. Ellis entered high school this month, his childhood chapter closing. There seems a synchronicity to this milestone in the goldfish’s swimming off this mortal coil.
When it was first obtained, almost miraculously the goldfish not only survived the ride home, but appeared to thrive in a small tank on a bookshelf in Ellis’s room. Other carnival fish of our acquaintance were not so fortunate.
Ellis’s fish was tough, and none the worse for a degree of neglect. Its bookshelf tank was often obscured by a door. Out of sight, out of food. Sometimes it might go more than a day without a pinch of flakes. But we could tell that it was hungry by how urgently it came to the surface and waggled so it would be fed eventually.
As it grew, it needed a larger tank and had to move from the bookshelf to a light-filled enclosed porch. Dense green algae would grow during the warm months, allowing the goldfish privacy between feedings. At a certain point, I moved it and the tank to the office, where the algae persisted. The fish even survived our oil furnace collapsing internally, filling the building with dangerous fumes.
Still without a name, but being fed more regularly, it habitated an upstairs room at The Star with a lot of people walking back and forth past the kitchen and bathroom to the production room. By then it was at least 10 years old, if not closer to 13.
It was Monday morning when I noticed that it had died. It had had a good run as far as goldfish go. Sentimental, I still haven’t drained its tank and put it away. I guess I am still half-expecting it to swim to the surface for one last waggle goodbye.