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When I was about 6 or 7 years old, I had to share a bedroom with my older brother Brian. Generally we got along (except for the time he locked me in the closet and the time he sliced my thumb open), but one night I was extremely angry at him for some transgression. I slept in the top bunk of our bunk bed set and in my 7 year old rage I told him, “I hate you and I hope your stupid fish dies!”
That “stupid fish” was Pete, a small goldfish won at a recent “Mission Day” fun fair at our otherwise horribly repressive Catholic grade school. (Just realized this but Pete was most likely named after Pete Ward, my brother’s favorite White Sox…My first gold fish’s name was Ringo; if you can figure that out, you are a clever Baby Boomer).
The next morning we woke up to find Pete dead. He had jumped out of his bowl. I still wonder about that, because I have never heard of another-wise happy fish jumping out of its bowl…
Remembering my angry words, I felt terrible about Pete, and resposnible for his death. I even felt bad for my brother, who was very upset. Since then I have always hated — and I mean utterly repulsed by - dead fish, especially the idea of touching or eating one.So I generally don’t.
There were other Petes but never any with the terrible fate of the original, whose short life provided me with another “issue” to deal with.
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