W. Bruce Cameron

Editor's Note: The following column was originally published in 2006.

I guess I always thought that my first grandchild wouldn't be a goldfish. I played along, though, when my then-8-year-old daughter solemnly explained that the arrival of "Princess Goldy" at our house meant that I was a grandfather. "Great," I said, "I always wanted to take my grandchildren fishing!"

Princess Goldy lived to be old enough to have grandchildren of her own, except that we never thought to provide a Prince Goldy. As pets accumulated, my kids took full responsibility for their animals, never asking me to get involved in feeding or watering the pets unless my children were busy, or forgot, or were bored.

I fed Goldy but never thought it was necessary to provide water. Over time, I was able to train her to perform a trick: I would tap on the glass, dropping fish food in her bowl, and she would look at the food flakes floating on the surface of the water with an expression of goggle-eyed amazement.

Ironically, what sold me on the concept of Goldy in the first place was that it would provide an "educational experience" for my children, who the pet-store owner obviously felt were too dumb to realize that fish live in water unless they saw it for themselves.

Or maybe the education came from the fact that while my daughter provided the $2 to buy Goldy, her father had to cough up the money for a bowl, a fake Roman pillar so that Goldy would think she was off the coast of Rome and not on top of our television, and a bunch of other supplies, for a total of 25 bucks. This lesson, that daughters come up with an activity that requires buying a lot of stuff and then Dad pays for it, was so well learned that by the time prom came around I didn't even blink — I just cashed in my 401(k) and bought the dress.

I've often wondered what Goldy thought about what was happening on the other side of the glass bowl that separated her from the air-breathers of the family.

She'd see the children drift by, ignoring their chores and asking their Dad for money.

She'd see the cat intently watching to see whether Goldy was getting ready to make a break for the other side. And every day, she'd see me, searching for the television remote. I wondered what Goldy would say if she could speak. Probably, "The remote is in your other hand, you idiot."

Goldy seemed happy, though — at least, if she had any complaints, she never put them in writing. When my son stood a Star Wars figure next to the pillar, Goldy accepted the addition without so much as a blink, probably figuring, "Well, when in Rome ..."

When Goldy first saw my children's faces, they were young, meaning still in elementary school, and sweet, meaning still covered in chocolate. But as time bubbled by, they grew older, wiped off the chocolate and put on too much makeup. Goldy witnessed their first dates and subsequent curfew violations, the trauma of their learning to drive in what had up until then been undented cars, and the tears and hugs as my older daughter left for college, taking my bank account with her.

I argued that Princess Goldy should go with my daughter — isn't that the very definition of an educational experience? But I was overruled because "nobody takes a goldfish to college," and anyway, "Dad is the only one who knows how to take care of it."

The cat danced at our feet, trying to communicate: "Me! I'll take care of the fish!"

I read somewhere that the average life expectancy of a new pet goldfish is 5 days, but if they make it past the first year they can live for decades. Goldy had been around for about 12 years when one day she demonstrated a new trick: floating on her back. Only the cat and I seemed sad. I wound up putting the goldfish bowl on my dresser to hold my loose change.

There's probably 25 bucks in there by now, which somehow seems a fitting tribute to Princess Goldy.

To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate web page at www.creators.com.

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