Well, at least this Chinese fighting fish went out battling. He was my two and a half year old daughter's first official pet. Named by her after her favorite member of the Jackson 5, Tito. Well, her favorite band member changes as frequently as her pampers, but when we asked "What do you want to name your fish?", she didn't miss a beat and said "Tito...".
So Tito made it about 25% through his normal life expectancy before being struck down by that unchecked killer of Betta's, "Dropsy". Ironic name. Poor guy. By the end he was looking like fat Elvis. Bloated and gasping for breath. When he took ill, we immediately went on line, hoping to find a cure.
You know, "Go to Petco, buy meds, drop in water, etc". But it turns out "Dropsy" is bad. Chances of a Betta surviving are about the same odds as Tara Reid making a comeback.
By day five or six of his advanced trauma, he was kind of listing to one side like a proud battle ship taking on water. My wife and I discussed how to speak to Ella about it. She seems a bit young for the whole "Grim reaper" thing, not to mention neither one of us wanted to freak her out and in to early toddler-therapy.
My wife took it in stages and one day as Tito was performing his last spinning/kick to the sounds of "I Want You Back", my wife picked Ella up and said "Tito's sick, maybe we should say 'hello". So, they peered in to the tank, and my wife said "Tell Tito, 'feel better Tito". Dutifully, Ella replied "Feel better Tito...". Then, "Bye Tito, hope you get better...". "Bye Tito, hope you get better".
Ella scampered off to play, and my wife got a fresh cup of tea. Five minutes later, Tito had gone to that great Siamese Fighting Fish Temple in the sky.
Nothing looks quite as convincing as a dead fish as well, a dead fish. A few hours later, convinced Tito wasn't going to pull a John Edwards and start channeling messages through the toaster or something, my wife pulled me aside, "I think we better tell her...".
I looked over at Ella, playing so innocently and figured my wife was right. Now, I've been pretty up close and personal with death. I've counseled those in the final stages of life, and shared more than a few last moments with family members and friends.
As I gently picked up my daughter I knew that given her age and sensitivity, there was really only one thing I could say in this special situation. "Ella, your mother has something to tell you...".
Ann held Ella so she could see in the tank. Tito was at the bottom. "Honey, remember how we said Tito was sick?". Ella nodded, "Yes". "And remember how we talked about how flowers live and then they die?". Again, "Yes".
"Well, Tito's dead. So daddy's going to take him to the river and put him in so he can go back to the sea". About this time I was biting the inside of my own lip to keep from crying and all I could see was like the title on one of those Movies Of The Week "Tito~He Swam Away".
"Why's he sick?". Oh uh, I hadn't figured on Ella asking questions, but my wife was there to volley. "Well, everyone gets sick. And sometimes fish die. Just like the flowers. You have them for a little while, then they're gone. That's just life".
Through the mist of my tearing, my wife was beginning to look like that old wise man from Kung Fu. But hotter. And her little grasshopper was slowing absorbing the truth of life, of living and dying. Ella nodded. She looked wise herself, wise beyond her years and I knew she'd realized, in her own way--something special was happening.
Ella looked at Tito. At my wife, then me. Then barely suppressing what looked like a smile but I'm sure was really an instinct to fight back tears she asked "Can I have a Peppermint Patty...tonight?".
And in the time honored traditon of our family, Ella proved that really, the only true way to deal with adversity is to eat candy.
Smart kid.
