I have always thought the worst way to die is to get flushed down the toilet. My father used to flush everything: large roaches that might revive themselves even after you had stepped on them, flies buzzing their last break dances on the sink, and goldfish. The first sight of a goldfish listing to one side in the fishbowl meant a trip to the can. I would stand looking inside the fishbowl: "C'mon Goldie, Dad's coming! Vertical, vertical!" and Goldie, with her big round eyes full of fear, would flap her fins in a desperate struggle to right herself, the whole time shouting, "But I don't want to go to hell!"

Can you imagine what it would be like to be flushed? First that terrible groaning and wheezing sound as the entire toilet bowl prepares to heave you down a hole. The water surges gently upward first, then the circular motion starts, slowly pulling you into its funnel, then tugging and tossing you round and round until you are dancing in this flushing ritual. Round and round, down and down, until suddenly -- you're gone. Sucked down completely. Lastly, the toilet coughs a couple times as if you were the largest, most disgusting thing it has ever swallowed.

It's not that I feel Goldie should have a traditional funeral: grilled and served with a slice of lemon, with an order of buttered new potatoes, a green vegetable and a glass of white wine. The truth is, Goldie never had a chance. Like most goldfish, she came from a broken home where the children were doled out willy-nilly to carnivals. In America, these fish would each be placed in a solitary bowl of water, and children would toss Ping-Pong balls in hopes that one would land in a bowl. Goldie would sit quietly in her bowl, in deep fish meditation, until she was jolted back to reality by the plop of a ping pong ball. She would be won.