Last Christmas, Santa brought many different things to the households on his route. Our house received cosmic dualism, the great battle between good and evil, in the form of two goldfish.

Our son Benedict, 3-and-a-half, was the recipient of these aquatic acquisitions. And for the first time in his life, he was given the great responsibility of naming living creatures. After talking him out of his first choice of “Yuck” and “P.U.,” we ended up with fish named “Good” and “Bad.” This may sound odd, but Ben is in that stage of life where everything is black and white. There are no shades of gray. These days our house is full of “bad guys” and “good guys.” They’re either with us or against us with no moral in-between. It’s that simple. And with our new fish, I admit, I saw an intriguing possibility: if neither Good nor Bad was immortal then one would undoubtedly prevail over the other, thus resolving the epic struggle between good and bad once and for all. The only remaining question was who would prevail? The forces of good or bad? And to think this would all take place within a tiny tank of water in our family room. But in the meantime, the fish seemed healthy as they adjusted to their new home, oblivious to the grave matter at stake.

This being our family’s first foray into pet-dom, we really didn’t know what to expect. Friends who were veterans of the family pet experience, rolled their eyes when we told them about the new addition to our family. They recalled countless toilet-side burial services for their children’s goldfish, and one mother related a story about how her son’s fish kept eating her daughter’s fishes until they decided to switch to turtles. This worried me a bit as I thought about how to explain the concept of death to a 3 year old.

Things were moving along swimmingly when we first noticed that Bad had developed a couple of dark spots on his gills. They were barely perceptible in the beginning. But as time went on I became worried. I’m no veterinarian, but Bad seemed to be going from bad to worse. Mercifully it was quick. Three days after Christmas, on the Feast of the Holy Innocents, Bad sunk to the bottom of the tank. In a fitting end, Bad flouted the conventional wisdom that dead goldfish rise to the top of the fish tank. He went down into the depths. Good had conquered Bad. Which was both good and bad. Because in three short days we had all become attached to our new pets.

And then there was the question of how to break the news to Ben. It was close to bedtime when Bad breathed his last, and my wife and I debated the options in hushed tones. In a panic, my first thought was to ignore the situation, hope Ben didn’t notice, and then rush out to find a replacement for Bad first thing the next morning. A variation on the old bait-and-switch routine. This led to some captivating ethical and practical considerations. What if the new Bad was actually a good fish? Would it be fair to label him with such a moniker? What if the new Bad looked nothing like the old Bad and Ben noticed the discrepancy? What if the new Bad didn’t get along with Good as well as the old Bad did? And the ever-present reality that this time around Bad could triumph over Good. Where would that leave us in the all-important moral struggle?

As the possibilities swirled through our minds, Ben approached us and calmly announced, “Bad died.” We both went toward the tank and reluctantly confirmed Ben’s diagnosis. There was no avoiding the fact that we had come face-to-face with a Bad death. With Ben’s help, I reverently scooped Bad out of the bottom of the tank. We went to the first floor powder room, Ben placed the corpse in the toilet, I said a prayer for Bad and Ben flushed him down to his final resting place.

Immediately following the burial, Ben went to the stereo near the fish tank and asked me to put on some “baby music.” I did so. He then told me that since Bad was a baby he thought he should hear baby music as he went to Jesus. He also told me the music would help Good since he was lonely and missed Bad. Children do have an amazing sense of ritual and sensitivity.

Bad did not die in vain. He helped a father discuss death with his son. That night we spoke of heaven and the nature of mortality, and Ben continued to ask questions and began to absorb the notion of death. And in light of a household tragedy, connections were being made in a young mind between life and death, the eternal and the temporal. The passing of a goldfish named Bad helped Ben begin to see how the human experience fits into the Christian story. It also eased the transition into a conversation I really didn’t know how to start. I’m looking forward to Holy Week and Easter in new ways this year. Ben will enter into the paschal mystery with new eyes, able to comprehend something of the agony of Good Friday and the joy of the Resurrection.

We did get a new companion for Good the next day. We were discussing potential names and after Ben rejected my idea of having Good and Plenty, he decided on Clementine. Why? Because I happened to be eating one at the time. So we now have Good and Clem. They both seem to be thriving, eating well and getting along beautifully. And while the cosmic battle that raged in our house for three days is over, we’ll never forget Bad. Ben still asks about him occasionally and we talk about life and death. It is, of course, a lifelong conversation, but I thank Bad for allowing us to get it started.