I had to tell Joey this morning that Quille was gone. When we told Andy about Chris, we got the expected heart-wrenching wailing of loss. With Joey, grief is not so obvious (unless, of course, you know him). I had prepared him, telling him last night how sick Quille was, and that we did not expect him to live, but we were doing everything we could do. I think he knew when he toddled in to the bedroom and saw my face. His own dropped.
He didn't cry or wail. He had questions for me. Was his fish moving? Was he in the box with Chris and Godot? Would a cat eat him? Can we get a new fish? What will Andy name his new fish?
Then the processing: Quille isn't moving any more. Quille was alive yesterday. Andy's fish is dead. It isn't moving anymore. Quille isn't moving anymore. We will get new fish. I'm sorry about the fish. I hate that my fish is dead. My fish died.
I explained our plan to get rosy reds instead of goldfish this time. Rosy reds are minnows, so they are more social and not as dirty as goldfish. They don't get as big, either. Both boys seem to have latched onto the new minnows. I have checked out the water and gotten some bacteria and stuff for it to get it to recover its cycle, and having less dirty fish in our tank should be a help. I scouted out the fish in town, and I have our source pegged out. I spent a long time in front of the snail tanks.
A long time.