Childhood memoir

This is an english assignment, enjoy.

I remember my first pet’s death better than I remember the actual pet; it was a goldfish that I named Fuzzy. Because I was six and the fish was really cute. Fuzzy came from the “food or friend” tank, I knew this because my mom read the orange post-it on the tank with a helpful pictogram of a Jesus-type fish with a xed-out eyes under the word “food” and a smile under the word “friend”. Fuzzy only cost a dollar. We bought him after about a week before I started first-grade I declared, at the height of the sticky Michigan August that I wanted to get a pet. This was a problem because we lived in student housing for grad students who had kids, and weren’t allowed non-cage pets, so we got a fish. The first week of first-grade I had a really hard time sleeping, I don’t know why, I just didn’t sleep very well.
On one of the nights of the first week of first-grade I couldn’t sleep at all, I tossed and turned all night, I didn’t fall asleep, maybe it was because I had a screensaver that made noise, a fish tank that made bubble noises, but it never bothered me before. I felt like something was wrong, like something was going wrong. It wasn’t an unusual feeling for me, I have known for as long as I have been self-aware that I tend to obsess and imbue excess meaning on things. But something felt wronger and more agitated than usual. I think I fell asleep for ten minutes, tops, and then my mom woke me up, I could here burble noises, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming form, I went to check on my new pet, and found him, or it, obviously dead. A freshly dead fish isn’t what it looks like in cartoons, doesn’t float belly up, it just sort of bobs, but even though Fuzzy didn’t really have much of a brain, I could see the dead in his eyes.
We buried him in a Band-Aid box, the next afternoon and I made a Popsicle stick cross and wrote in crayon RIP Fuzzy. Maybe even to this day Fuzzy is buried in the garden behind the house on Macintyre Dr.