Inquiries into the death of Yang, one-time mate to Ying and full-time goldfish, continue amongst speculation that the death was anything but natural.
We take you live to Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys), currently perched delicately atop a stack of books, a cat who has alluded more than once that a well-placed shrimp cocktail would loosen her tongue.
“What would a humble being like myself know about such violent goings on?” she purrs, her back leg extended gracefully forward as she bites and pulls on her exposed and flexing claws. “Rumors abound, of course. In such living quarters –“ and here she directs a flat and inscrutable gaze at the garage-sale arm chair in the corner – “one does not expect an over-abundance of decency, of course. But murder?”
When pressed, Liza Bean Bitey, abruptly and uncharacteristically, has little to offer. Her little black lips part almost imperceptibly. “I’ve said too much,” she hisses. “Talk to the plecostomus. He knows more than he tells.”
She wraps her tail around herself, stares thoughtfully at its tip. “I myself would never have guessed,” she whispers.
The plecostomus is found suctioned to the tank wall. A fish of few words, he directs a black eye at me, then to Dolly Gee Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers), then back at me.
He raises what passes for an eyebrow in the fish community, looks back at Dolly Gee, back at me and closes his eyes.
The interview is over.
Dolly Gee, in the meantime, seems to have come into a little money, has bought herself a fancy new collar; and the phrase “Keep your friends close – and your enemies closer” comes unbidden to my mind.
Maybe I should buy some canned tuna.
Dolly Gee likes canned tuna.
This Either Is, Or Is Not, Awesome
44 minutes ago