I had a goldfish called Wanda and she lived forever. She was my first pet. I got her when I was two. Lots of my friends had pet fish as well, but they always seemed to die for some reason. Not Wanda though. Wanda couldn’t die. Or so I thought.
Wanda, like most goldfish, lived in a small round fish bowl. All day, she swam in circles. I loved feeding her. Her food was typical fish food – little flakes that smelled horrible and came in a small blue box. Watching Wanda nibble at the flakes once they landed on the surface of the water in her bowl excited me. Wanda, my pal.
I used to press the tip of my finger against the bowl and hope Wanda would follow it. Sometimes she did. I’d even chat to her like she was a dog. For a while I thought she knew who I was. How could she though? She was a fucking goldfish. Kids are mad in the head.
She was my goldfish though, and nothing seemed to kill her. My friends’ fish seemed to come and go all the time. One week they’d be swimming around their tanks, the next they were getting flushed down the toilet. Not Wanda though. Nothing could kill her. Or so I thought.
I was two when we got Wanda and she was still going when I turned nine. I remember wondering how long goldfish could live. If Google was around I definitely would have looked it up. (Mid 90s, no Google. People still had conversations.)
Wanda, the elixir of life. Defier of odds. The immortal goldfish. Nope, absolute horse shit. Only recently I learned the truth.
My sisters brought me to get Wanda when we first got her. They were all excited about me having a pet. They’re ten years older than me. They also named Wanda. I think they were also the ones who decided Wanda was female. How can you know the sex of a goldfish? There’s hardly a scaly little cock and balls floating between their fins.
So here’s the truth about Wanda’s immortality. My sisters only told me this recently when we were drunk. Wanda didn’t live forever. In fact, she died almost every fucking weekend.
My sisters always had house parties as young teenagers. I remember them. My parents would go for dinner and leave my sisters to babysit me. Once my parents were out the door, I’d be sent upstairs with my LEGO. A gang of awkward teenagers with mouths full of braces and oily hairstyles would arrive at the door. They’d pile into our living room carrying naggins of vodka or cans of cider. The Lynx Africa and Tommy Girl brigade.
Apparently it was a common joke amongst my sisters friends – the boys obviously – to kill my goldfish. One time, Wanda’s bowl was spiked with whiskey. Another time she ended up in the microwave. We lived right next to the sea, so one time someone threw her from our balcony, aiming for the marina. I always thought Wanda lived a peaceful, long life. Far from it. In reality, she was being absolutely fucking tortured, and dying constantly.
I keep referring to Wanda as a singular fish. Clearly she wasn’t. Every time someone killed Wanda, my sisters would have to go to the local pet shop and replace her. I never noticed. For nearly ten years. Here I was thinking my goldfish, my pal Wanda, was impervious to death. It was all a lie.
One day when I was nearly ten I came home from school and Wanda was floating at the top of her bowl. The day had come. I flushed her down the toilet, saluting my friend Wanda, the goldfish that had lived a long and happy life.
Nope.
Aaron500 