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7:19 a.m. - Tuesday, Aug. 27, 2002
To one ornery piece of sushi
My ornery little Siamese fighting fish is on the bottom of his bowl this morning. That�s how he tells me he�s unhappy. He stops working on his bubble nest and floats motionless at the bottom, with his long purple and red fins just grazing the little bit of red and blue gravel there. The first time I saw him doing that, I thought he was sick, or even dying. I�ll only admit it this one time, but he scared me. I rushed over to see what was wrong.

Up close, I could see he was moving, but only his tiny, transparent pectorals, which he uses to keep his balance and stability in the water. Other than that, he was absolutely still; facing me and glaring at me through what seemed to be half-closed eyes. I don�t mind telling you, I�m glad life on earth has worked out this way; that I�m big and he�s little. I get this feeling that I�m one little mutation away from being shoved up against a wall and getting bitch-slapped by floppy wet fins until I promise to change brands back to the fish food we both know he really likes. I know he hates the reality that I�m in charge and he depends on me for everything from clean water to entertainment.

Speaking of clean water: That�s all he wanted. I had already cleaned out his alternate fish-bowl and set water in it overnight. Somehow, he knew that. His brand of fish doesn�t really care too much one way or the other about water quality. Their natural habitat consists of small, shallow pockets of warm, brackish water. Unlike most other fish, they get almost as much oxygen from gulping air as they do waving their gills through the water. This guy, however, is a lot like me. He isn�t a natural part of his brand of fish. He�s a fish of a different color. He likes HIS water to be just so. Not too clean, mind you� but he isn�t going to put up with swimming around in a cesspool of his own personal urine either. For him, enough is too much, and he�s trained me by now, in his own anti-social way, to give him his little change of scenery and clear water at just the right time every week or so. If I don�t, the little shit pretends to die on me. He thinks that�s a threat. Like I care. Sure enough, after an hour or two to settle into his other home, he was back at the top, making bubbles one at a time and storing them against the glass until the top of his bowl looked like bath-time at the Calgon Ranch.

So this morning, he�s on the bottom again. Except this time, his water is clean. I�m not stupid. I know he�s just a fish. I know that people� other people, not me�. Often project their own human thoughts and feelings onto the behavior of the dumb animals they keep as pets. I know all that. And yet I swear he knows something this morning. He knows that twenty-four hours from now, I�ll be standing in front of a security screener at the Gulfport airport. I�ve little doubt that the fish sincerely hopes I�ll be watching security dump the contents of all my bags onto the floor in a furious and futile search to find whatever implements of terrorism and chaos I�ve secreted among the panties, CDs, and cross-stitching supplies I�m carrying. He knows something�s up. There�s a change in the wind� er, current.

I�m pretty sure he understands the contract we�ve been living under together. I�ve been there for him and yes, he�s been there for me sometimes too. Next to a stray cockroach or a confused roly-poly bug or two, Ornery�s the only other living thing in here. Not counting the water-bamboo plant that sits alone on the fireplace. He�s been there sometimes when I�ve been just too lonely and needed to see another creature of any sort. So in that way, he�s paid his keep around here. He�s not capable of love, but he�s capable of at least seeing and acknowledging me� and some days, that�s enough. But our contract is up tomorrow. Once I load my bags out the door and shut off the air conditioner. All bets are off. I am on my own, and so is he. He�s too dumb to miss me, and I refuse to miss him. No hard feelings.

The original contract called for me to give him one last act of kindness. I promised I would wash him down the running garbage disposal so as to end his cantankerous life instantly and painlessly. Call me sentimental. I think death is a necessity, but suffering isn�t. I hate to see an animal suffer, especially for no reason. Animals aren�t sinners, after all. And so, by the terms of the original contract, I should be ending his life later today. He�s on the bottom of the bowl because he knows this. He knows there�s really no good reason to be building his bubble nest anymore. No reason to put on his act of challenging and threatening me or anyone else through the glass walls of his bowl. Those games are over.

What he doesn�t know is that when I mentioned our agreement, I got into hot water with everyone who heard it. Everyone I know has told me I am to let them take care of Ornery while I�m gone. Even Laura told me to bring him to Baton Rouge. I can�t believe people can get so het up over a little piece of meat that wouldn�t even make a bite of sushi, but clearly they do. And just as clearly, if I keep the contract, I�ll be in serious trouble with a bunch of real people. People who, unlike the fish, ARE big enough to push me against the wall and bitch-slap me �til my eyes turn red. So I�m abrogating the contract. I�m walking away from him in the morning. He is really and truly on his own. I hate that. I feel like a shitheel for it.

Ann says she will take care of him. I believe she�ll try. With a little luck, she�ll keep him out of reach of her two cats and still remember to feed him and change his water gently once in a while. I know she�ll try to meet his needs for survival, and I appreciate that. I really do. But I hate it too. I hate it because now it�s an unfinished chapter in my life. I don�t know.. it�s hard to explain. I wouldn�t take pleasure in washing him down the disposal. Not at all. In fact, it makes me cry just to think of it. See, I really do care for that stupid thing. But ending him would mean that I wouldn�t be worried or wondering if he was suffering or dying, etc. etc. I could know that he�s gone and that the going was the very best I could do. Now I�ll wonder if I let him down. Now I�ll wonder if I�ll ever see him again, and I guess it�ll break my heart if I don�t. See, now I�m gonna fucking miss him and I really, really hate that.

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