Going for goldfish: Patrick Logue on a moment of truth

My seven-year-old boy doesn't read The Irish Times yet. He prefers his book about sharks and the other one about a little girl who doesn't like to eat peas, especially when I read it in character as a middle-aged woman from the north of England. Don't ask. But he definitely and most certainly never logs onto irishtimes.com or cycles down to the shop to buy a copy of the paper. And who could blame him? Don't we try to protect the young ones from the harsh realities of life for as long as we can?

So don’t tell him what I’m about to tell you – that I contrived recently to tell him the biggest lie.

The irony is I’m constantly telling him that lying is a complete no-no and, furthermore, that little boys (and big men) must always tell the truth. And given the industry his father finds himself in, we should really always take a high moral stance on this issue. Truth matters, yes, but sometimes it also hurts. So much, that you’d be tempted to lie sometimes.This was one of those times.

He's dead, I thought, but didn't he have a great innings? Wrong on both fronts

It all started in 2014 when two carp miraculously appeared in our playroom inside a plastic fish tank with a red lid, coinciding with the little boy’s third birthday. Outside the tank, names were thought of and minutes were whiled away just looking at the fish and wondering what they must have made of all these large creatures staring at them. Inside the tank Goldie 1 and Goldie 2 settled in with their mountain, two hump-backed bridges and a pretend tree. For four happy human years they blubbed happily (we think, although fish don’t smile) around their little world, disturbed only to have their water cleaned once a month and some food thrown in from on high every few days. We smugly congratulated ourselves that these fish had lived longer than most and that every day after a year ago was a bonus for them and for us. However, a quick Google search after the fact revealed that on average goldfish live between five and 10 years and in the wild can live much longer. One such lucky creature had managed to make it to 43 years, which is pretty old by any creature’s standards. I should know.

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But our luck with fish, it seemed, was on a par with our attempts to keep geraniums alive during the winter months. Evidence of this, if it were needed, emerged one morning towards the end of summer – this is when things started to go awry.

It was probably a sign when the dog randomly a few days earlier had stood up on an armchair and stole an entire tub of fish food, took it to the garden and gobbled it up. Dogs can tell of future woes and he obviously felt the fish food would be surplus to requirements soon. There was enough food spilled on the floor underneath to keep the fish fed for a few days but it was around the same time Goldie 2 started to tilt to one side.

He’s dead, I thought, but didn’t he have a great innings? Wrong on both fronts. A cursory flick of the tank prompted Goldie 2 back to life. And so it continued for a few days – last rites and flicking –but gradually the flicking had an ever decreasing effect.

“Goldie 2 is dead”, I announced thinking the emotional attachment to the fish would be most likely on a par with our attachment to the geraniums. “Don’t worry, we’ll get another one”.

The truth hurts but in the end it's much less stressful than keeping up the pretence of a big lie

But tears ensued and I did a terrible thing. “Maybe we can take him to the vet and make him better”, I ventured. The tears stopped. A moment of madness maybe or perhaps an attempt to ensure that my youngest still had intact the notion that Daddy is able to make just about every situation better.

That night, I presided over a short ceremony in the downstairs toilet when everybody was in bed. I was gone to work by the time anybody else got up the next day. On my lunch I walked up to Whackers on Parnell Street and bought the largest goldfish they had. I left with it in a plastic bag and some advice – if your goldfish starts to keel, stop feeding it and wait it out, it'll probably be fine. I also left with the challenge of having to explain how Goldie 2 had been made better, but also had shrunk and become much oranger. Myself and the new fish walked back to The Irish Times office and later caught the train to Drogheda before driving home. At home I managed to acclimatise him to the water and introduce him to Goldie 1.

But still, my big lie would need to be explained. They say time is a great healer so I decided to wait until the next day and hope he had forgotten about the fish’s vet appointment. Days went by and no questions, so I decided to intervene. “Did you see the fish?”, I asked casually over Saturday morning breakfast.

“Yeah, Goldie 2 had a baby”.

“Oh right”, I say, “and where’s Goldie 2 now?”

“He’s dead, but it’s okay I still have two fish. I’m calling the new one Cutie”.

We didn’t ask how a male fish could give birth.

And so this parent was taught a lesson, the truth hurts but in the end it’s much less stressful than keeping up the pretence of a big lie. Also, little boys and goldfish are far more resilient than we had realised.