Fish Rescue

"No, Mom!" One of my almost-men chided as they caught me standing in front of an entire end-cap, shelf-above-shelf, of fish in tiny plastic containers. And one in a deli container. I had my sons in Walmart shopping for (sorry about shopping for your gift in a Walmart, MWH) their dad's Christmas coffee. It was like trying to lead a roving band of clowns on a trip they didn't sign up for but which just happened to include operating a coffee bean grinder. They were much easier to shop with as store-trained toddlers than they are as teens. I was somewhat, OK, very rattled by the time I found myself eyeing a pet fish. When one of my boys began to try to draw me away from the display, I rebelled. As he reminded me how the fish would die within three days, that I'd have to clean it all the time, and that the Christmas budget would not allow spending money on ourselves, I chose one. Declaring it a rescue and not a personal purchase, I named it Zuzu, after one of the Bailey daughters, and headed for the cashier. I appropriately embarrassed them by asking the puzzled teenage cashier under what conditions I could return the fish when it died.

It did NOT die, has happily entered January and been given a new name for the month: Jack. He sits on the sill as I wash dishes, and I've seen that they all stop by to look at him when they think no one is watching.