Our fish died the other day... and... I buried it... and, only because my mom saw it in the tank, in the morning, and started yelling, "Oh my god!!! It's dead! Why do you guys keep dead fish? Why is he dead? He's dead! Oh my god!" I ran towards the garage, where she was screaming from, and said, "Why are you yelling like that? So what it's dead... it was a sick fish to begin with and now, it's dead... it's okay..." She looked at it, kept pointing at it and said, "Why would you bring sick fish here? I'm gonna get rid of this fish tank soon... watch me! He's dead..." I realized that a dead anything freaks her because of a personal experience we had when my grandmother passed away, so, when I got home that afternoon, I took the fish out of the tank. It was about 6 inches long and 4 inches wide, hardly fitting into the net catcher. I walked it towards the trash can, felt bad for it, then, went to the toilet and dropped it in there, like a little kid would. Obviously, the fish was too big for the toilet drain so it just floated there as the water drained out and I watched. Then, like a little kid, I put the net back into the toilet, picked the fish back out, and walked it towards the front yard, which was the only other alternative. As I sat there, on my knees, digging a hole in our garden and smelling its odor, I thought about my grandma and how she loved animals and how proud she would be of me. So, I set it in the dug up hole, covered it in dirt, and patted it down. As I got up off my knees, I remembered when I buried my only pet turtle, Leo, who had died from heatstroke because we had left him out in the sun too long. I remembered going back to find him a few days later and he was gone...
Back then, I was six... now, I'm twenty-six... goes to tell you that people have the same heart at any age...
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