A few weeks ago, we won a little goldfish at the Chamblee Centennial celebration. He needed a name, so we asked Ramsay what he thought. "Dumptruck," he said without hesitating. And so, Dumptruck the Goldfish began his short but sweet life in the Sanders' household. Dumptruck never was a particularly active swimmer, but this morning he was more subdued than normal. So we decided to have "the talk" after lunch today.
I explained that Dumptruck was not moving, because he was dead. The smoke of turning wheels began to drift up from Ramsay's head. "Different Dumptruck," he said, because the real Dumptruck wouldn't be like that. Good thought, but no. This just happens some times, I said, that things just get sick and they die. "Nice going," the brain replied: Mama's been sick before (that's why she was in the hospital), and Popo was just in the hospital because he was sick, and Ramsay even gets sick from time to time. So I proceeded to tie my tongue in knots to explain why it was that most of the time things get sick but don't die. "Whatever," the brain said. "Just cut your losses."
So we said goodbye to Dumptruck the Goldfish without a whole lot of fanfare. Mama buried him the front yard. Papa chalked one up in the "stupid parents" column. And Ramsay went back to playing with his trains, which is what we had interrupted him from doing in the first place.