Although it seems like a slam-dunk topic for a “life lessons from childhood” blog, I have yet to write about any family pets from adolescence. Eagle-eyed readers will recall that I once wrote about our neighbor’s dog, but never a pet of my own. (Imaginary pets don’t count.) Despite years of begging and pleading with my parents, they never gave in. In my mother’s view, pets weren’t worth the mess or the maintenance, even with two responsible girls.
When I was nine, however, my mother finally relented. Sort of. For a brief period of six days, I had a pet goldfish, aptly named Goldy. In those six days of what I’d call our “passing pet experiment,” caring for a goldfish taught me a valuable life lesson: while owning a pet can teach responsibility and important life skills, make sure you choose your pet wisely. Because as we learned, finding the right pet at the right time may be never.
Here’s my story…
All funnel (cake) and games
If there’s one event that I loved as a child, it was a local carnival. While I didn’t partake in the nauseating carnival rides like Ferris Wheels or swinging Pirate Ships, I did enjoy the simple, probably rigged carnival games. In Wappingers Falls, we had an annual carnival in June, now called “The Festival at the Falls.” The festival was held at a place called Meiser Park, which we pronounced as “May-zeer Park.” Having later taken French in high school, I discovered that our pronunciation was most definitely wrong. In any event, the carnival held at the historic Meiser Park and its accompanying homestead museum paid homage to Wappingers Falls’ colonial heritage and community spirit. (That detail definitely went over my nine-year-old head. I just heard the word “carnival.”)
At the carnival, my sister and I convinced my parents to buy us a modest allotment of tickets to play the various games. The amount of tickets we got typically lasted about an hour, including the time it took to agonize over which cheap prize to select if we won.
As a child who loved any activity that involved kicking (as in soccer, not violence) or throwing, I immediately feasted my eyes on the Fish Bowl Toss, also known as the Goldfish Toss.
When I saw what the Fish Bowl Toss was all about, I guess you could say it got me, hook, line, and sinker.
Oppor-tuna-ty knocks
To get better intel on how to win the Fish Bowl Toss, I studied a man playing the game wearing a traditional 1980s ensemble—a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, cut-off jean shirts, and tube socks pulled high. The Mickey Mouse man aimed a ping pong ball at a table full of small fishbowls. Each fishbowl had a small goldfish swimming in it.
The man running the games saw me watching. He explained the very simple rules to me: “If you toss a ball into the bowl, you get a fish.”
Having always yearned for a pet, I was up for the challenge. I watched as the Mickey Mouse shirt man missed three times. I had been rooting for him, despite his terrible aim. After using up his tickets, the man shrugged and ambled away empty-handed. That wasn’t going to be me. Plus, I had an added advantage. The game operators often let kids stand a little closer to the games.
With my above-average aim and shorter distance to the bowls, I knew I could throw a ping pong ball into one.
And I had three tickets to do it.
Throw me for a loop
My first two shots bounced off the bowl. But on my last shot, plunk! The ping pong went right into the bowl. The man in charge of the game used a scooper to put my new goldfish into a plastic bag filled with water. He carefully tied the top and wearily said, “Here ya go, kid,” as he handed the bag over.
Holding the goldfish bag high, I hurried over to my parents. As they saw me approach with my goldfish bag, I’m guessing my parents exchanged a quick glance of “oh shoot” with each other. My older sister, not one to be left out, likely demanded that she win her own fish at the Fish Bowl Toss. Six tickets and twenty minutes later, my sister was also the proud owner of a new goldfish. My parents, on the other hand? Not-so-proud. But what choice did they have? We couldn’t just abandon our goldfish baggies.
And so, we returned home, with two new scaly additions to our family. My mother begrudgingly dug out mason jars for us to house our fish in. She declared that the goldfish’s new home would be in my sister’s and my shared bathroom; not her pristine (and highly sanitized) kitchen. To avoid confusion between the two goldfish, my fish—whom I named Goldy—”lived” on the right side of the bathroom, while my sister’s fish (whom we should just call “Finn” as I have no recollection of its actual name) was on the left. We also made name cards for each of the jars just in case.
Although nowhere near as cute or cuddly as the furry pet we wanted, goldfish—which in the best circumstances could live for years or at worst, a few days—would have to do for our passing pet experiment.
Fishing for compliments
I spent the first hours watching Goldy swim around the mason jar. That got boring after a while. Since I was hungry, I wondered if Goldy might be hungry too. I gave Goldy a few crumbs of bread, which she (he? it?) briefly nibbled at. After watching Goldy swim around for a few more minutes, I eventually found something else to do.
The second day, I watched Goldy swim around the jar again. I talked to Goldy about my hopes and dreams for her, then gave her some more food. There was still food from yesterday left in her jar. Thinking she’d want the leftovers for later once she got hungry, I left the crumbs in the jar.
On the third day with Goldy, my interest in her started to wane. Goldy didn’t do much. When I tapped my finger against the mason jar, she didn’t swim up to me or mirror my actions. (I knew she wasn’t a dolphin or sea lion, but that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.)
Goldy still didn’t seem all that hungry. Or happy. She didn’t swim around her jar as much as that first day either. Perhaps she missed her friends from The Festival at the Falls. Whatever it was, Goldy didn’t seem to love her home in our bathroom.
All a“bored”
While I still checked in on Goldy over the next couple of days, my time in the bathroom was limited. As in, I didn’t spend much time with Goldy. Finn, on the other hand, seemed to be doing just fine. My sister’s fish swam around his jar like he was training for the aquatic portion of a triathlon. Perhaps Finn’s fish jar had better lighting?
Despite my initial excitement about having a goldfish, I had grown bored with Goldy. I was done with our passing pet experiment. If I’m being honest, I wanted a pet to play with, not look at. Taking Goldy home had been a bad choice.
Although my mother never said anything, I’m pretty sure she hoped I’d tire of having a fish…and perhaps all pets. The passing pet experiment turned out to be a success for my mom, but a disaster for me once I realized that I didn’t want a fish after all.
Although I still fed and cleaned out Goldy’s jar, our relationship had become distant and impersonal.
Cold fish
On day six, when I went to wash my hands in the “fish” bathroom, I saw something gold near the faucet handle. I jumped back, thinking it was a bug. After my heart rate subsided, I took a closer look. It was a fish.
I glanced over at our two mason jars. Finn was swimming along in his pleasantly. Goldy’s jar, however, was pitifully empty. Goldy had made a run for it (and she made it quite far from the jar, I might add).
I called my mother upstairs and showed her poor Goldy. By then, my sister had joined us in the bathroom. I can’t recall how Goldy was transported from the sink to her final resting place, but it was a solemn experience, I’m sure.
Without saying a word, my mother and I looked at Finn in his mason jar, then back over at my sister. She shrugged.
If I could insert a cartoon bubble that said “gulp” here, I would.
Just squidding
After Goldy’s death, my sister admitted she was also done with our passing pet experiment. Following a brief mourning period for Goldy (two days, at best), my parents decided that Finn would be resettled in a more permanent place outside of our bathroom.
My father was the one charged with transporting Finn to his new forever home in the Wappingers Creek. With my sister and me as witnesses, my dad pulled over to the shoulder of a low bridge along the creek. My sister quietly handed Finn’s jar to our father.
Although memories may differ on the level of care my dad took in “guiding” Finn into the water from the bridge, in a flash—or perhaps a splash—Finn had a new home.
While we will never know if Finn thrived in the Wappingers Creek, spending his days among the trout, bass, and catfish, I hope he did. What we did know was that the passing pet experiment on Tanglewood Drive had come to a full and complete stop. Forever.
As an adult, my sister has been the mother of several cats and a dog. But I never wanted a pet after Goldy’s death.
I know my kids would love for us to get a dog, and every now and again, I give it a moment’s thought. But with everything going on in my life, I think I’m someone who just wasn’t cut out to have pets in my life. I guess you could say I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
