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When our five-year-old daughter Olivia's goldfish, Bluie, died, the other week, we were confronted by a crisis larger, or, at least, more intricate, than is entirely usual upon the death of a pet. Bluie's life and his passing came to involve so many cosmic elements--including the problem of consciousness and the plotline of Hitchcock's "Vertigo"--that it left us all bleary-eyed and a little shaken.
To begin with, Bluie, as his name suggests, was not actually a goldfish. He was a betta, a goldfish-size fish that the people in pet stores encourage you to buy in place of the apparently tetchy and sickly true Asian goldfish. The betta is a handsome fish, with long, ...