The Curse of the Golden Fish

Some years ago while our kids were still “wee tikes” and far less expensive than they eventually became with each passing year, they were involved in little league. Each year the local league sponsored a fair to raise money for such things as chalk, jockstraps and official little league baseballs. I could never figure out the jockstrap part, but decided that the better part of valor was not ask. Being the doting parents that we were, we gave them a couple bucks with the assumption that they would go down to the field and get a hot dog or two, some healthy candy and return with the predestined gut-ache.

Instead of this preferred outcome, each returned with a plastic bag containing three or four goldfish. My immediate re-action was to flush them down the toilet, —the goldfish— not kids (let me think about that) but Mom had discovered by that time the “curtain climbers” had named all of the fish. I still had thoughts of Pisces murder, but was informed by my loving spouse that if I wanted dinner and continued tranquility, I better figure out some way to preserve the longevity of our new family. She told me that I should get my butt in the car and solve the problem. Butt is not quite the word she used.

I was outnumbered 5 to 1 and put both arms in the air in full surrender. I beat it down to the nearest pet store, found a clerk and told him that I needed some “accouterments for Carassiu sautatus auratus.” (which is Latin for “I am about to be beaten to death with a plastic bag full of fish.”) Naturally, his answer was “domesticated or wild?” displaying that he understood Latin. Not true! The guy looked at me like I was from outer space.

I explained to him my rich uncle had left me a bag full of goldfish with the stipulation in his will that “I had to keep them alive for the next 60 years.” The enthusiastic clerk grabbed one of those rolling carts said “please follow me.” My first reaction was “what great service.” However, this thought was soon replaced by the suspicion that this guy knew he had a live one. I suddenly had the sinking feeling that this guy was on commission.

The first stop was the tank department at which I dropped 40 bucks. The next stop was the air pump department which was 25 bucks unless I wanted something with the carbon filter which was another 15 bucks. We then went to the chemical department, where Dow Chemical had a permanent sales representative, where I dropped more dollars to make sure that the water was free from chlorine and other fish disturbing chemicals. I call this double-dipping, because I think I pay to have chlorine put in the water in the first place. Oh well, it’s for my kids. The next item was 10 bucks worth of small pebbles that were needed to coat the bottom of the bloody aquarium. He told me they were having a sale on fish Castles, which would make the fish better acclimate to their new home. I had no idea that under all the water on this planet that there was a multitudes of castles for fish. I said “Oh sure, let’s go for it”. We then got the fresh water wild life Flora which is an absolute necessity for the growth of the proper level of oxygen in the tank. “Great!” “Give me 5 pounds!” I figured if the fish died I could throw the green stuff into a salad.

He pointed out that I needed to have a small net to remove the fish each week so that we could clean up tank. I made the mistake of asking him what could possibly get into the tank? His answer was an enlightened “fish droppings.” It took me a few moments to figure out what the hell the fish might be dropping. I think my comment at that point was “if we don’t feed them, then they won’t drop anything, is that right?” His answer was “that’s correct, but they’ll die!” My private thought was “now we’re getting somewhere!”

The sad conclusion is I walked out of the store approximately $250 lighter with a backseat full of things to prolong the life of five bucks worth of goldfish. Naturally, kids being kids, two weeks later the bloody goldfish were a forgotten thing and now along with mowing the lawn I have to clean the damn tank.

After thinking about this over the years and now that the kids are gone and have children of their own, I have come to the conclusion that one day in the near future I’m going to show up on their doorstep with two plastic bags of goldfish. What’s the old adage, “don’t get mad, get even.”

The moral of the story is “never look a free fish in the mouth, for you may find a hook.” I don’t believe that I should leave you dangling on a line, but there is more to this story, however I don’t suggest you wait with baited breath in anticipation of how this Golden Horde eventually gets assassinated.

Criminal Crows

                                                                          

You’ll get a kick out of this. About 12 o’clock today my daughter was out by the pool doing some work on her computer and heard this huge ruckus up in one of our Dutch Elm trees by the pool. She said she saw three huge black colored birds doing aerial combat with what looked to be like a couple Robins.

The next thing she saw was this little gray bundle falling out of the tree and into the pool. She said she went and got a shovel and fished it out and came to find me, having seen me years ago perform surgery on that baby hawk that I mentioned some time ago. I was in the family room reading, real meaning – dozing, and went out to this poor little orphaned Robin, totally soaked and looking extremely worse for the wear. I asked him “if he was all right,” but all it could do was open his beak and squawk, loudly!  My assumption was in Robin-eez that meant:

“Are you joking, idiot, I just fell out of a tree and landed at this damn pool.”  

In the meantime the insurgent black birds, now defined as crows, had been dismissed by the two fighting squadrons of Robins. There were no birds to be seen and mother and father Robin I suspect had taken off for the wild blue yonder. So much for avian parenting responsibility. I thought Congress had passed a law a few years back, during Carter’s tenure, that this was a federal issue. Where is the FBI (Federal Bird Institute) when you need them?

On close examination, I discovered that it was highly probable this poor little devil had a broken wing, besides being totally immersed in highly chlorinated water and extremely irritated. I pulled the wing straight and somewhat back ever so slightly and tucked it back into the baby’s body.

I would say the prognosis is highly unlikely that it will fly, let alone the consideration he/she (right brain, left brain sensitivity not withstanding) makes it to adulthood. It may not be able to pass the flight physical for a pilots license. If that’s case, I already have a plan in motion to teach it how to run, real real fast.

By this time my daughter was completely freaked out and wanted me to get my pellet gun and seek revenge. I told her that crows were very smart and by now, knowing they had committed a felony, attempt at murder, were halfway to Chicago.

We found a box and built a nest out of a little towel and went hunting for worms, or I should say my daughter went hunting for worms, which she refused to pick up, leaving this task, which was totally chauvinistic at best, to me. She’s really a good and warmhearted soul and an accomplished hunter of worms, which is somewhat surprising in that her Masters Degree is in Sociology from a rather expensive parochial University. It must’ve been the Jesuit influence.

I put the poor little baby in a towel and tried to dry it off —with much continued squawking on the part of the bird, not me, with threatening beak movements, snapping and a obvious rebellious attitude and clearly swearing at me in Robin-eez.  Anyway, I picked out the worms with some sanitized surgical tweezers,YUK, and every time the bird would open its beak to complain about its current predicament, I would shovel a worm in its wide open mouth!

We shall see if this poor devil survives after all it’s squawking about what it probably considers maltreatment by the Homo Sapiens. I guess that’s why they call them birdbrains.

My biggest fear now is that the hawk we saved some years ago, now fully developed and known killer will return and consume this yet to be named Robin for lunch. In that we don’t know which gender and I had really no clue where to look, we should probably call it Chin-wa-how-do which is Mayan for “birdbrain who falls from nest into pool”.  (I made the Mayan part up because it’s a dead language and should protect their rights of free speech. We Homo Sapiens are really uptight right now and I doubt if the birds, with their diminutive brain, have any clue as to what the first amendment is and could care less about alienation.

I’ll keep you posted because I’m sure you’re really excited about our latest adventure. Do I need to remind you of the old avian saying “a bird in the pool is worth two in the bush” or something like that.

“Come fly with me”