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Honolulu Lite Charles Memminger |
As expected, this fish story
had no happy endingIn this day and age, when no one will accept responsibility for anything, where blaming everyone else for your problems is the norm, I'd like to step forward as a man and go on the record as saying that the death of my daughter's fish Lani was not my fault.
In our house, I am in charge of the Department of Birds. We have two of them, Sweetie and that other one. I clean the cage, feed and water the fowl, and put them to bed with heartwarming stories of how the neighbor's cat just might drop by after they go to sleep.
We are all in charge of Boomer, the purported dog. And let me tell you, it takes all hands to keep that rascal in line. I just discovered a spot where he has been secretly peeing for the past several weeks, and I gave him such a big old loving hug his eyes almost bugged out. If George Bush could spare a couple of divisions of infantry, I think we could whip that pup into shape.
But the fish, Lady, I believe her name is, is my daughter's. It's a blue creature about the size of a salmon hook with long flowing fin thingies. I urged my wife and daughter to put Libby into a fish hostel or something when they left on a trip to the mainland last week. But, no, they said Lucia would be under my care. They left me strict instructions to feed the animal exactly five dots of something or other from a bottle or envelope or something and do something else and, well, like I said, it wasn't my fault.
I LOVED LUCY. As fish go, she was a pretty exciting specimen. She lived in a little glass bowl the size of a bait pail that was relatively free of miniature scuba divers blowing bubbles, algae plumes, stray piranha and the usual annoyances other captive fish have to endure. We got along great. I fed her the minuscule iotas of whatever I had been assigned to feed her.
Now, I'm no Marlin Perkins, but little Leilani seemed about as happy as a fish could be and I grew very close to her.
I'd pass by her little watery cellblock and say, "Hey, Loretta! How ya doin' today?" and she'd stare at me blankly, which I believe is a fish's way of expressing enthusiasm.
I woke up this morning to find that during the night Lateefah had passed away, gone to that big Red Lobster buffet in the sky. I'm not ashamed to say that I shed a little tear for Lenore. She had become, if not part of the family, then at least part of the furniture.
Now I dread breaking the news of Laura's demise to my daughter. Although I'm sure an autopsy or fishopsy or whatever would show she died of completely natural causes (old age is my guess), I'm afraid there might be insinuations that because she retired under my watch that somehow I'm responsible.
That will hurt. Because in the few hours I had come to know her, nobody in the world was closer to Lassie than I was. I loved her in that special way only a man could love a fish without sticking it on a toothpick and calling it a pupu.
I'm thinking of going to the pet store and buying a fish identical to Lizzie with the hope that maybe my daughter won't notice Leila is gone. I mean, you've seen one blue fish, you've seen them all, right? I have a few days to figure out what to do. All I know is that the house is going to be awfully empty now without my little waterlogged pal Larry.
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Charles Memminger, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists' 2004 First Place Award winner for humor writing, appears Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. E-mail cmemminger@starbulletin.com