Goldie Spawn, a goldfish of what can only be assumed to be of a pot-bellied variety, is floating, as she usually does, upside down.
There she is, in the corner there, flat on her spine, a mere mouthful of a fish with the power to make me stop and peer anxiously into the tank.
“Whoops,” I think. “Looks like ol’ Goldie finally –”
And then the little bugger blinks, flips over, and swims coyly to the bottom of the tank, where she no doubt has a good laugh with her little goldfish buddies, Gill Meloche, Lady G’Agua, Cuddy, and, of course, Blanket.
I stop and stare at her at least once a day.
Dammit.
You’d think I’d get used to it, like I do so with so many of the other petty annoyances of this modern life. Whereas my foremothers lugged pails of water up hills and carved homes out of prairie sod with nary a moment for such foolishness as trying to get inside a goldfish’s head, I am confronted with murder mysteries and the tortured musings of transitory plecostomii.
I’m tired.
“Well for heaven’s sake,” says Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys), sipping a gin and tonic, “you can’t possibly compare now and then, can you?”
I shake my head, briefly, wonder if that’s my gin the cat is drinking.
“You work enough,” she purrs from the easy chair, a delicately curved claw moving iridescently melting ice cubes. “Why don’t you go lay down?”
I snort. “Not likely,” I say. “Last time we made that arrangement I woke up to a kitchen full of cats with their paws in the butter.”
Liza Bean’s emerald eyes narrow with pleasure. “Yessssss,” she smiles.
I shake my head again, squint into the tank. Goldie is back up in the corner, on her back as usual, her showy fins moving gently.
“Maybe I will lay down for a bit,” I say, lying back on the couch and closing my eyes. “No visitors, though, okay? For me?”
Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) sets her drink down, jumps onto my chest. “You wouldn’t mind if I took the car for a bit, would you?” she hums.
I open my eyes. She’s already holding my car keys.
“Just for a bit,” I say.
“Of course,” she says.
There she is, in the corner there, flat on her spine, a mere mouthful of a fish with the power to make me stop and peer anxiously into the tank.
“Whoops,” I think. “Looks like ol’ Goldie finally –”
And then the little bugger blinks, flips over, and swims coyly to the bottom of the tank, where she no doubt has a good laugh with her little goldfish buddies, Gill Meloche, Lady G’Agua, Cuddy, and, of course, Blanket.
I stop and stare at her at least once a day.
Dammit.
You’d think I’d get used to it, like I do so with so many of the other petty annoyances of this modern life. Whereas my foremothers lugged pails of water up hills and carved homes out of prairie sod with nary a moment for such foolishness as trying to get inside a goldfish’s head, I am confronted with murder mysteries and the tortured musings of transitory plecostomii.
I’m tired.
“Well for heaven’s sake,” says Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys), sipping a gin and tonic, “you can’t possibly compare now and then, can you?”
I shake my head, briefly, wonder if that’s my gin the cat is drinking.
“You work enough,” she purrs from the easy chair, a delicately curved claw moving iridescently melting ice cubes. “Why don’t you go lay down?”
I snort. “Not likely,” I say. “Last time we made that arrangement I woke up to a kitchen full of cats with their paws in the butter.”
Liza Bean’s emerald eyes narrow with pleasure. “Yessssss,” she smiles.
I shake my head again, squint into the tank. Goldie is back up in the corner, on her back as usual, her showy fins moving gently.
“Maybe I will lay down for a bit,” I say, lying back on the couch and closing my eyes. “No visitors, though, okay? For me?”
Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) sets her drink down, jumps onto my chest. “You wouldn’t mind if I took the car for a bit, would you?” she hums.
I open my eyes. She’s already holding my car keys.
“Just for a bit,” I say.
“Of course,” she says.
16 comments:
The houseful of cats will come later after she's had a chance to pick them all up in your car. Put out the best tuna won't you?
Delores, I'm hoping this time they have the decency to wipe their paws on the way in...
Oh geez, my house is unattended too....
Really, no more than you SHOULD provide her with gin.
I love Liza Bean! Hope she returns the car in one piece!
The critters will get you. They learn your weak spots and plot against you!
Why has Dolly not learned to drive. Liza surely would not nip her around to basketball games.
Hari OM
Oh Pearlie... sigh... the unlearned lesson...
On the other fin, if you stopped looking at Goldie that would be the one day you'd miss the event. Like the lad who cried wolf ... well something like that... YAM xx
I swear, you let down your guard for ONE second, and - BAM - cats are there to exploit it.
Hadn't thought about it objectively 'til now: cop pulls over possible DUI (cat is full of gin); no apparent driver, just a kitty curled up on the seat. It says,"Meow?" That's unlikely to go into a patrol report. Clever, clever creatures.
Cats rule. And sadly they know it.
Are you sure it's wise to name each fish? We had a whole tank of 'em and their collective name was Spot. Or Spotty, when we were feeling especially close.
Sending my best wishes to Liza and the gang.
Hope the car is an automatic as cats suck at changing gears
If Liza Bean has the car, get up and make sure the butter is out of reach.
Tsk. Old enough to know better, Pearl.
I bet she didn't even put fuel back in the tank.
I think you should loan the car to Liza Bean and then sell tickets for people to watch her drive it. :)
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