To us he may not have been even just a goldfish. The curiosity value expired some time after he arrived in a tank with three or four other goldfish five or six years ago, a gift from friends leaving the country. One by one the other goldfish died and he'd been alone in the tank for four years or so, and he was not even a momentary distraction to the eye.
Yet I worried about him, and I'll admit that because I worried about him I worried from time to time about my mental health. I worried that he wasn't getting enough stimulation, so we moved him to a busier part of the house; I worried that he was lonely, but my wife said she'd read it was cruel to force companions on a goldfish used to being alone; I worried that the noise of the noisy filter drove him nuts, so I fixed it occasionally but I didn't fix it often enough.
The worry didn't keep me awake at night but I did feel that my family had an obligation to this fish given that we were his captors. How could we improve his lot? Should we bother?
He died this week, at the age of 16 years! Sixteen years trapped in a tank! To my surprise I'm sad that he's died and at the same time I'm sorry that he endured 16 years in a tank.
But could there be any life more worthless than that of a goldfish? It was clear, given his anticipation of feeding time, that he valued his own life, but did that matter? We tend, I think, to assess the value of the life of an animal on its rapport with us, but we never assess the value of that life to the animal. I think the goldfish valued his life, and therefore his life had value, and that's why his loss of that life saddens me. Am I confirming my idiocy?