Poppy

Avogadro, center

We called him Avogadro because of his large size.

But I called him Poppy.

His lips sucked in and out in a forever hunt for food. I liked to imagine that if I hung, silently with my eyes closed, suspended in the water next to him, I could hear a faint pop! every time he opened and closed his toothless mouth.

He was charmingly plump and when he swam his whole body endearingly wiggled back and forth. His favorite food was thawed peas and duckweed, which he gobbled and eyed us like a boy in a candy shop, asking for more.

His stout body had the deceptive appearance of sturdy health. When we returned home from vacation last year, he bobbled at the top of the water like an inflated balloon. We rushed him to the aquarium where he spent a couple weeks recuperating back to health. A man offered a hundred dollars for our Avogadro, but we declined and took him home.

Over the next few months his health came in spurts. We tried everything we could - antibiotics, less food, colder water - but in the end it was lack of stomach that killed him. His, literally, as goldfish have a single, long intestine in place of a stomach. Us, figuratively, as we could not bear to see him suffer.

Poppy lived a well-loved life.