Fine Finned Friends

For Father's Day, Dave planned with his brother to take Vaughn fishing for the first time.

Now, it was some frustrated fisherman's bright inspiration to create these things called trout farms where little impatient kiddies could get their first taste of "real" fishing. The fish are practically jumping out of the water and landing in the boat, they are so easy to catch.

I remember the days when I'd go with my brothers, riding for hours in the backseat of a Bug on long windy roads, only to spend more hours "enjoying nature," waiting for the minutest of tugs on the line and then (only after it was pitch black. My brother is truly an optimist) to go home empty handed, with the exception of the multitude of mosquito bites as mementos of my Grand Fishing Adventure. *sigh* Those were the days.

Anyway, Vaughn was all excited about bringing the little trophies home to live because, you see, he was going to bring them back alive! None of this distasteful violent business of bashing in little fishie heads. No. He generously was volunteering to bring home these little orphan trouts to live in our 10-gallon fish tank, company for the goldfish. Thankfully, it is against state law to leave the fish farm with live catch (thank you State of Oregon!), but the fish farm does the distasteful business of executing the little buggers for you. They were also willing to clean, gut and behead them (Yes! Yes! So Mommies everywhere don't have to do this. Bless you.), but Dave decided it was a good compromise to leave the tail and head on for a more realistic effect. Since Vaughn couldn't bring them home alive, at least they'd look alive, except for the unblinking eyes that constantly stare at you accusingly--"Murderer!"

So it was that a very proud Vaughn came home after 15 minutes (okay that's an exaggeration, but not much) of fishing with 5 little trout in a gallon size Ziplock bag. Oh, they looked tasty. Little did I know that the trout saga had only begun. While I was planning recipes for these fresh juicy farmed fish, Vaughn was going to get his entertainment's worth out of these little guys. Fishing was only the beginning. We managed to initially wrest them out of his grubby little hands and deposit them in the freezer for frying the next day. However, not 20 minutes later, Vaughn is swinging them around, fish faces pressed tightly against the plastic, eyes bulging, telling me goodbye as he heads out to eat with Daddy and other assorted Hogues.

"Daddy said I can take them with me to the restaurant to show everybody!"

Say what?

"He did, did he?" Okay, this is the digital age. We could take a picture. This parenting thing would be so much easier if there were just one of us, and I'm volunteering to concede my role.

My mind is conjuring up images of half-frozen fish, basting in the warm sun in the van for untold hours while little microscopic anaerobes are multiplying at the rate of a hundred horny rabbits. So much for the fish feast.

"Okay. Whatever."

The next day...

"Where are my fish? I want to say good morning to them."

"They're in the freezer, but... Oh, forget it." Dave had still been holding out hope that the fish were still edible, so they had returned to their rightful place in the freezer. When it comes to food, that man is willing to literally risk his life.

Vaughn takes out what is now a great big fish ice cube. Oh, that's a problem.

"I want to hold one." Again?

"Well, they would have to be thawed out first."

"How do you do that?"

"You leave them out of the freezer and wait." I say this with clenched fists, eyes squeezed tight, teeth grinding, hoping against hope that this isn't that important and he'll decide to go torture the dog instead.

"Okay!" he chirps, and away he goes, spending the rest of the morning gallivanting around the house with the poor beleaguered fishcicle, happily showing it to the goldfish, the cats, the dog, waving his new found finned friends tauntingly in front of the animals' hungry eyes. Later adventures planned for the scaly chums were a "swim" in his kiddie pool (to speed the thawing process), followed by a good mud mask and consequent washing off in the bathroom sink. Vaughn was busying himself with all this fish recreation while I was outside, distracted with planting. I didn't fully realize what he was up to until I saw him happily trotting in and out of the house, conspicuously with fish in hand.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm washing the fish off. They're dirty. See? Look! They came apart."

It is at this point I realize he has successfully thawed the fish, and I seriously contemplate whether or not I should divulge this information to Dave before refreezing them. After all, he started this ride.

"You took those fish inside?"

"Yeah." Now, at this point the fish are starting to smell, well, fishy--that overpowering odor you get when passing the "iced" seafood section of your local discount grocery store.

I run in to see a lone trout laying, soaking on the bathroom sink counter. You can virtually see those little squiggly lines in cartoons wafting up from its bloated little body.

"Okay. No more fish in the house! They stay out here. FOREVER!"

Based on the look on Vaughn's face that followed, you would think I had just told him I don't love him, I've never loved him, and I'm dropping him off at the nearest foster home.

"But...*gulp*...how...*hiccup*...will...*tears*..they...*more tears*...get...*snort*...clean?" Now we're in full-on-heart-wrenching bawling mode. "They need to be clean!"

Now, I'm not sure when my son developed this obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness, but this is the first time it's manifested itself, believe me.

In the end, the fish were cleaned, with the hose--outside. They then found their final resting place in the freezer, where they are to this day until enough time has passed that I can safely dispose of them without the topic rearing its stinky little fish head.