It's no vendetta - he's got Dropsy. We've been seeking a cure, but it don't look good. I'm looking for a good way to whack him, and while I'd love to give him the old MS-22, known as "possibly the Rolls Royce of euthanasia", based on what we have around the house, it looks like we're going to go for death by Vodka. Maybe Tequila. With a 100% humane rating, I think that's how we'll send him off. He's been a good, stand up guy, and I'll be sorry to see him go.
I had a talk with the Father. The idea of trying to dupe Josephine with the old switcharoo just isn't gonna fly. So, we just gotta prepare our little crumb. Here's how it's going to go down: She knows he's sick. Very sick. So we let her know just how very sick he is today, when I pick her up from daycare, maybe, and let her get used to the idea while we, say, "mix the concrete". She has a day or so to ask questions, and say any goodbyes. Then, after she goes to sleep one night - we pop him. Tomorrow night maybe, like I said, or Friday - so she's got the weekend to get over him. We'll play it by ear. So, I'm breaking out the Death Book, and ordering a tiny little casket, and digging a little grave under the daisies. Missy Fishy will soon be sleeping with the fishes. Sorry Goomba, we'll really miss you.
