Taylor is my son's fish. A betta. Taylor came into our family in August. As part of growing up and showing signs of maturity, my son was granted his birthday wish to own a fish, to be a steward of a life. Samuel took the work seriously and he provided care that was exceptional for a seven year old. He enjoyed the fish, but he did not tap on the glass or put his hands in the tank. Following the rules was a key part of the maturing process.
Over the last week, we noticed that Taylor was not eating his food. His movements slowed and most of the time he would hang out on the bottom. We cleaned the tank and that seemed to perk Taylor up. On Friday, Taylor seemed to be slowing down again. I came to the conclusion that he had the dreaded ich. We treated him with drops and then we added a snail to help keep the tank cleaner.
Today, I went to his room before he came home from school. The gills remained still and Taylor would not move when I put a finger in the tank.
When we got home, I took him to the room and shared the news. I let Samuel confirm the diagnosis. Amy had left for airport. This meant that I was alone to handle this issue and over the last few weeks, he had turned to mom for most of emotional support.
I had come to the conclusion that this espisode was going to be my son's first real link with death. He has been with me to funerals and visitations before. However, he rarely knew the folks who had died. Even when one of his beloved Sunday School teachers died, we were out of town unable to attend the funeral, no finality.
This time would be different, he would have to start dealing with death. We knew that would be one of the lessons...fish die. I killed a dozen in my life. I felt for him, because I remember when I raised my sheep for 4-H. That first spring evening when I had to send my ewe to the truck to the butcher was tough. I cried. I gave him decisions on how we would dispose of Taylor. He decided that the flush was not a satisfactory choice. I guess he is right, the fish is more important than poop or pee.
So, we buried the fish in the flower beds. We prayed and I hugged him.
Difficult day for my son, and I hope that I led him through this rite of passage with a monicum of grace and hope.
So, I pray that Taylor is welcomed into God's Kingdom.
Fearless Joy,
Guido
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9 years ago
2 comments:
You sound like a good dad. I remember losing a beta to the wrath of a newt that I had in the same tank when i was a kid. Later, the newt crawled out of the fish tank and found a shoe of mine to dry up and die in. My dad and I buried him in the garden too--it's a good place for fish tank folks.
On another occasion, my dog Ben decided to kill a rabbit in my back yard on Easter morning. I stood at the window and pointed out to my younger sister that our dog must've been mad he didn't get an Easter basket. It wasn't so funny when we went out in the back yard and discovered the rabbit had been pregnant and there were rabbit fetusus strewn out on the lawn. We buried them all in a field out to the side of our house that is now a subdivision.
Joyful Fear,
Nathan
My wife, daughter and I had a betta, as well. One of the joys of my daughter's morning was going downstairs to our kitchen and feeding our betta, who she called Mr. Fishy. Sadly, Mr. Fishy died several months ago. My daughter, Miriam didn't quite understand what happened to Mr. Fishy and why she was no longer able to feed him. However, this was a great opportunity for me to talk about the cycle of life and death. Although, she is still somewhat young - 2 1/2, she welcomes the idea and comfort of heaven. I pray too, that Taylor and Mr. Fishy have been welcomed into God's eternal kingdom. And that all of us will be welcomed there.
Peace;
Christopher
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