Because I am a loyal friend, and it’s the season to give charity to those less fortunate, I am currently the foster mom to a fish.
Its usual human guardian, away for the holidays, likes to pamper the fish (“Mirliton,” not its real name). Mirliton is tropical and blue, and as far as I can tell, it has no personality whatever. No chatter. No ego.
Mirliton does seem to be a pacifist. While it’s sitting next to me, in its warm, watery abode, it radiates serenity and sanity. It never votes and never takes a position that might reveal its gender.
It’s also not alone. It arrived with a stowaway snail, “Ned,” who lounges around and feasts on algae, but keeps a social distance from Mirliton. I’ve never seen them hug.
As their foster mom, I’m naturally the last one to know. Are they just friends? Is Ned a tenant? A janitor? A groupie?
And what am I, in this crowded vale of tears? Am I a hostess or an enabler? Am I the windshield or the wiper?
Dive in.
Life in a fish bowl
May mot be so bad if covid free