On 13/08/2007 morning, not long after I woke up at 8:30am, Girlie, the female fighting fish, went away to play. She is the first fighter I've watched breathe until the very end. I watched her gasp her last breath, then fell still. I thought I saw her struggling, and I told her that if she felt that she wanted to go, then go. If she wanted to live on, the fight on.
I finally realised that fighters are true to their name sake: they fight to the end.
I think we both knew that Girlie didn't want to fight any more.
She went away at her most beautiful.
I buried her in a special place: the first teapot that I've bought in Australia; the teapot has been with me for 5 years. I broke the spout yesterday night. In retrospect, I think it was a sign that it was time for Girlie to go. I planted some mint in that teapot.
Girlie had been unwell for some time now. She grew better, but at the same time that I began my first emotional ordeal, she seemed to fade away, yet fought to linger on.
I didn't cry when I watched her go. That was a first for the emotional me.
To Girlie: you've been great. This is for you.
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