Whoever thought of giving children a live animal that doesn’t live for more than three days was a jerk. I mean, let’s think about this for a second, shall we?
Let’s get little Sally something to get attached to, something she cannot touch, but can love a few days and then we can crush her because it dies, leaving her parents to deal with the grief and the aftermath. Awesome.
As I sit here writing, Goldie, the auspicious trophy from a cheap carnival game that the Kidlet DID NOT EVEN WIN (yeah, they gave it to her for trying –but that’s another rant for another day), is swimming in her little plastic tank unconcerned that her days are pretty much numbered.
“Take care of Goldie while I’m gone,” the Kidlet tells me as she’s leaving for her dad’s house for the weekend. I tried to prep her that goldfish really don’t live that long, and as I watched her eyes fill up with tears for her beloved pet of 12 hours, I curse those darn carnival people for putting me in this position.