Something Tells Me I'm Into Something ... Fishy

That was mine and Tom's job last night, and it was the first time either of us had done it without someone there who actually knew what they were doing. We eventually figured out the intricacies of the aquarium pump, cleaned everything, and got fresh water into the tank. The only remaining chore was to catch the fish with our handy little green nets, plop them into the newly-refurbished Winter Resort, and walk away with a strong sense of accomplishment. Fourteen of the fifteen fish posed no competition to our cat-like reflexes and quick little green nets. But one catfish had a whole new bag of tricks for his would-be captors.

I scooped him up in my net after an entertaining chase around the pond, but as soon as I dumped him into the tank, he stiffened up and clung to the net as if he were in shock. At least, that's what Tom and I thought at first. I tried moving him around the tank for a few minutes to revive him, fearing the worst. (You see, I've had a prior history with traumatizing the fish of this pond, but that's a story for another day.) He still wouldn't budge.

Tom said, "Okay, let's take him out of the water, and maybe he'll start flipping out and give us a sign that he's still alive."

Nothing.

I thought, "Okay, maybe being back in the pond water will take him out of it," so I lowered him into his usual home.

Still nothing.

"Okay, yeah, he's definitely dead," Tom said.

He began humming a funereal dirge as I walked down to the nearby bathroom to give the catfish guy the Long Flush. I was two steps from the toilet when we both simultaneously noticed that the rotten fish's gills were still moving.

"He's still alive! Get him to the pond! Get him to the pond!"

After frantically racing back up the steps to drop the net in the life-giving water, we next thought that perhaps this catfish gent was just tangled up in the net, unable to get himself free. So we got scissors and began carefully, painstakingly cutting the net open as close as we dared to the fish's fins. Thinking that would make it easier for him to wriggle free, Tom gave the net a final snip and we let ol' Catfish go.

Only to watch him sink like a rock.

"All right, I'm just going to do it by hand," I shouted, and I gingerly started stretching the net out over his fins, trying to give him enough leeway to break free. I did this for about twenty seconds, both of us jumping from the tenseness of the moment whenever the fish made any kind of move. Tom helped by nudging the fish with the end of an air hose. All of a sudden, this fishy mastermind just catapulted itself across the pond, swimming around as if nothing had ever happened.

Tom and I, for all intents and purposes, had been duped. Duped like a city slicker in Joe's Garage. I started yelling "Don't EVER do that to me again!" while Tom got the remaining net ready. And dang if the fish didn't try the SAME trick when Tom finally caught him and put him in the little tank again.

We just said, "Screw 'em," and left the net and all in the tank. I proposed that since we didn't remember what the fish's real name was, we should start calling him ODB. I'll let you interpret what that might stand for.

A couple of minutes later, we were cleaning up. ODB let go of the net and just started floating around, chilling in his new digs. I could've sworn he was laughing at us.