William Anthony

Years ago, I sketched a goldfish I’d bought for our daughters. It reminded me of the goldfish my grandfather gave me when I was five, alone, and recuperating from surgery in a hospital. It swam in a glass bowl with a porcelain pagoda, and I used to take the fish out and kiss it.

I cherish many memories from childhood. But there are no inanimate objects from my childhood that evoke more cherished memories than the living companions whose company I enjoyed as a kid. Not my train set, the Erector set, or the toy gun that sounded real until the batteries wore out.

I remember our little beagle, who loved chasing rabbits; turtles, caught and released every summer; a parakeet that knew how to escape his cage; a baby snapping turtle quickly returned to a Wisconsin lake; countless guppies and tropical fish; and a springer spaniel who followed me everywhere I hiked in the New England woods, a teenager lost in thought.

Short though their lives were, each one’s memory is a blessing.

For me, life without an animal companion is unimaginable. It may be just a primal need for a deeper connection to the universe. But the truth is, these innocent creatures teach us how to be human: that love is abundant; trust is earned; that we need to play more, live in the moment; that language isn’t necessary to communicate; that slights should be forgiven and forgotten; and that sometimes all we need is a gentle touch.