I ran to my room in tears; Spotty was dead! Dad had deliberately killed my beloved fish.

Earlier that day while we were fishing, my dad was surprised when I caught the first fish. I reeled it in all by my 7-year-old self and placed it in the McDonald's Happy Meal bucket I had brought with me.

I named the fish Spotty because he was. I baited my hook, cast and waited for some of Spotty's friends to join him in my small bucket.

Spotty, a 7-inch rainbow trout, struggled in his small confines. After a while, he stopped swimming. Near the end of our day fishing, I caught two fish, but spotty had become stiff.

Around three in the afternoon, we packed and started for home. I asked my dad if we could stop at the next lake we passed so that I could get new water for Spotty.

Dad drove past a lake. Then another. I feared for Spotty's life. If he didn't get new water with oxygen in it, he would die.

When we got home and dad opened the back of the car, I grabbed Spotty's bucket. his lifeless eyes were clouded. I dropped the bucket, spilling fish water on the carpet of the car and ran to my room.

I held a grudge for weeks. I prayed for Spotty's soul.

One night, Dad brought home a cut-out poster of a little kitten. Dad said he was sorry for Spotty's death and asked me to forgive him. I did.

My first experience losing something I loved dearly came as a jolt but not as much as the latest one.

I worked with Holly Miller in the kitchen for two years. Her death comes as a shock to all, including me. She had a smile for everyone and was always willing to help us out in the dishroom.

Goodbye, Holly, I'll miss you.