Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: The Family Pet (05/15/08)
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TITLE: A Tale of Two Mice and a Goldfish | Previous Challenge Entry
By Angeline oppenheimer
05/22/08 -
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That’s not all. My front yard is the designated meeting ground for bunnies of all sizes. They love to congregate in the early morning mist and in the fading long shadows of dusk. They too have made themselves at home. They don’t even bat a whisker should you go by. Then, there is the family of quails, weaving in and out of the big bush and the road-runner who is afraid of its own reflection. I can go on to mention Coyotes, howling off the edge of our yard and a garden full of ladybugs and snails and lizards and a pond full of fishes and frogs.
I really don’t mind maintaining a natural menagerie of animals but animals that live in the house with me--that’s a different story. My job description can only be stretched this far--cook, driver, referee, counselor, mentor, maid, gardener-cum-farmer, tantrums controller, student, wife, mother--I mean how far can I stretch? So the word is out--for the time being--no pets. Understand? Apparently not!
“Mom, I want to be able to pet them!” little Bear implores, chubby hands on hips, as if preparing for a full-on verbal combat.
“How about petting the snail? It won’t run away,” I suggest.
“Eeww….Kelvin says we can have his white mice,” the mid-sized Bear comes to the little bear’s rescue.
“Really? Kelvin wants you to have the mice? “ Sly Kelvin--what an easy way to unload his responsibility.
No way. As if rehearsed, both bears cling to my legs, one grabs the right, the other attaches itself to my left.
“Please…please…please….” they coo in union.
When you’re a mom, you only have so much resolve. Resolve often breaks down when the supplicants are only four feet tall and they come with cherub faces and tiny squeaky voices.
The two white mice move into the family room, placed on the table by the window. Great view. Kind tiny owners.
At first, everything goes well. They fuss incessantly over the two mice. They cajole, poke, stroke and even chase them around the cage to try to pet them. Both want to be the first to get the mice to perch on their fingers. Their desire becomes the mice’s paranoia. The more they refuse, the more intense the effort. One mouse even curls in one corner to avoid the paparazzi-like treatment.
By the fourth day, one turns violent--it scratches the tiny Bear’s hand. Blood, tears and pandemonium ensue. By now, I have enough too--cleaning out the poop, chopping vegetables, changing the water bottle and vacuuming the wood shavings that fall out of the cage. They are tearful but wise--the mice should go back to Kelvin.
For a while, no little voices are asking for any pet-sibility and my life returns to normal.
On the Little Bear’s birthday, my best friend comes down the street, hugging a fish bowl with one goldfish inside.
“A goldfish?”
“Shaina told me that’s what she wants for her birthday,” my friend is pleased with herself.
I shoot my little one the “Just you wait” look, but it’s wasted on a pure soul.
Just like that, we acquire a fish. The two little bears are excited, debating over names-- they finally agree on Bubbles. For the next few days, Bubbles is changed to Ariel, then Orange Squash, Spongebob, and Matzah Ball. By the fourth change of names, interest starts to pale. Still, they feed the fish and try to talk to it--the easy part. I have the sole responsibility to clean the bowl, condition the water, wash out the slimy pebbles, coax the goldfish into net to change the water that got milky every so many days.
What do you expect from hands that only know how to enjoy gummy bears and lollipops?
That’s it--I’m going to email all close friends and relatives. No gift of pets please. When in doubt, check with the frazzled mom.
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