It was 11:58 PM. I was sweating, panting, and covered in mud. The shovel hit the earth with a dull thud that echoed in the silence of the suburbs. I wiped my forehead, leaving a streak of dirt across my face. I looked like a character from a horror movie, but my intentions were pure. I just wanted to do right by him.
Then, the world exploded in red and blue lights.
My neighbor called the cops on me because she saw me “burying a body” in the backyard at midnight.
I froze. I was standing in a shallow grave, holding a spade, looking incredibly guilty. I saw the silhouette of Mrs. Higgins in her window next door, clutching her phone, probably describing my height and weight to the dispatcher.
Two officers burst through the back gate, flashlights blinding me.
“Drop the shovel! Hands where we can see them!”
I dropped the shovel. It clangored against a rock.
The police arrived to find me covered in dirt, holding a shovel.
“It’s not what it looks like!” I yelled, shielding my eyes.
“Really?” the officer shouted, hand on his holster. “Because it looks like you’re digging a grave in the dark, son. Where’s the body?”
I pointed to the shoebox on the patio table. It was decorated with glitter and sequins.
“He’s right there,” I whispered.
The officer approached the box cautiously. He lifted the lid with the tip of his pen. He peered inside. He paused. He looked at me. He looked back at the box.
“Is that… a fish?”
“It is,” I said with dignity. “I had to explain that goldfish, Sir Bubbles, had died“.
The officer lowered his flashlight. The tension evaporated, replaced by confused silence.
“You’re digging a three-foot hole for a two-inch fish?” he asked.
“I was giving him a Viking funeral,” I explained, gesturing to the tiny boat made of popsicle sticks I had also crafted. “But I couldn’t light the fire because of the drought ordinance, so I opted for a burial at sea… of dirt. But the ground was harder than I expected“.
The officers looked at each other. Then at me. Then at Sir Bubbles, who was resting on a bed of cotton balls.
“Go inside,” the officer sighed, suppressing a laugh. “And tell Mrs. Higgins to stop watching Dateline before bed.”
I finished the funeral under the watchful eye of the law, realizing that while Sir Bubbles may not have made it to Valhalla, he certainly went out with a police escort.
