n our last lines of "On the Road," we tried to lure you into reading this next episode by implying that something fishy was up. So what exactly was lying above us in the overhead compartment? A large furry bobcat captured from the great Montanan wilderness before we embarked on our journey? No, hardly a possibility considering that the overhead compartments are only 11 inches high and 16 inches deep (we borrowed fat brother b's measuring tape--see episode 1 if this makes no sense to you). Okay, okay, here's the reel story. Our pet, or rather pets, were more of the aquatic variety. Fish in fact! Two very special fish, captured from our father's goldfish pond. These were not some pet shop variety habituated to the luxuries of fluorescent gravel, plastic plants, and cute ceramic no fishing signs. These fish were backyard natives, the very products of that year's early June spawning amongst the weeds in the shallow end.
You might envision us sneaking into the backyard early one morning before our family had awakened to make our capture. But no, our crafty cleverness in the fish department did not begin till we entered the Helena Regional Greyhound Bus Terminal the evening of our departure. Rather, it was our parents whose actions in the early morning hours were characterized by crafty cleverness. Since the annual spawnings began 3 years ago, problems of overpopulation had plagued the pond. Perhaps if we had been chefs employed by any school lunch program across America we would have been prepared for the magnitude of this problem. No, we aren't referring to over crowding problems in the schools or even questioning contents of a fish patty. Rather, we are referring to the concept one encounters when concocting instant mashed potatoes. If you've ever made them, you know EXACTLY what we're talking about. Start with a small amount "stuff," add water, and you get more "stuff" than you'd ever want, need, or be able to give away. So, after starting with a small amount of fish, 4 to be exact, and adding water, we got fish, more fish than we could ever want, need, or ever hope to give away. The only possible explanation for this phenomenon was that the fish were in competition with China for population density....either that or they had spent a former life as instant potatoes and became goldfish only through reincarnation.
We had hoped that we could combat this problem with natural means. But sadly, the crawdads we introduced turned out to be vegetarians, the kind that don't eat fish. And our neighborhood cats proved to be too slow for these lean, mean hardy fish. Fish that can't (or rather, wouldn't if they could) come in through the cat door when temperatures drop below 30. That's negative 30 degrees Fahrenheit by the way. In the dismal days of winter when the cats stretch out upon warm bricks beside glowing fire places or cuddle beneath handknit afghans, our fish huddle beneath a layer of snow, biding their time in the cold black pond depths. Instead of a large blazing fire, the pond is solely furnished with a small stock tank heater programed to emit the required energy to thin the ice just enough to prevent those rowdy neighborhood ice skating parties. No, these domesticated, uncoordinated cats don't stand a chance with our monsters of the deep. So, with nature's failure to create a predator efficient enough to prey upon these fish, our dad had to step in. In order to explain exactly how he stepped in,we wanted to enlighten you with a simile. But what simile? We racked our minds and finally a dear old friend suggested we compare him to a summer's day. Just as the sun dawns its glowing raiment at the beginning of the day slowly creeping into the sky, our father would don his waders in the wee hours of the morning and head out to the pond slowly creeping into water, his mind swimming with dream inspired creativity. As the problem progressed, we began to link our father's early morning outings with our mother's already infamous "Sunday soup" and the pond side plants that had begun to look like they belonged on Miracle Grow commercials.
So as we squatted by the pond nets in hand, happily made such remarks as, "say...suppose you could bring some more back to school, for that goldfish eating party.....Tropical?" We could not halt our father's grand scheming even after continually repeating that we just wanted a few pets to remind us of home. Alas, it was to no avail. Our father, envisioning the possibilities of vast goldfish elimination, called Grayhound and asked exactly how many goldfish we could be permitted to travel with. Rushing inside upon realizing we could no longer hear not-so-silent-scheming, we witnessed the end of the phone call. In horror we watched his scheming smile drop into a pitiful pout. The receiver fell to the ground with a dull clunk. A dead silence filled the room spare for a confused voice faintly repeating, "No.... No pets. No pets are allowed on greyhound.....Sir, are you there?" Seeing the pained expression on our father's face, we acted quickly. Grabbing the phone we dialed that familiar number that recently has been advertised on billboards, in newspapers, and on those red, white and blue vehicles that quickly speed to important destinations; the only number that could possibly bring help: 1-800-231-2222.
"Greyhound, please state your present location and desired destination," responded the cheery voice on the opposite end.
Having no time to play silly games, and desiring to remain anonymous, we ignored this utterly intrusive question and instead began urgently badgering the employee about their pet policy. After an intensive amount of agonizing, the exasperated Greyhound employee explained in a low, barely audible whisper, so as not to be heard by her supervisor, who was close at hand for having had to unravel our unstandard questions, "Smuggling is permitted as long as you don't get caught...you'd have to be very clever."
"Clever, hmmmmm" we unconsciously repeated in unison, savoring the answer.
Not sure exactly how much we wanted to risk for our poor dad, we inquired of the consequences of forbidden cargo possession and received a weary reply, "Well, I don't think they'd get TOO mad, it's only goldfish." Willing to take this risk, we decided to bring two goldfish with us. After much searching we finally found the perfect container: a plastic peanut butter jar. Plastic because we figured rules were the only things we wanted to break on our trip. Peanut Butter, becuase we wanted to slowly introduce the fish to a nutty environment in order to avoid tramatic shock upon the boarding the bus, and later of course arriving at Trinity College. So with declaring Skippy the official peanut butter of the trip, we now had a temporary home of Siwel and Kralc. Siwel and Cralk? What? For you non-English readers, here is the pronunciation:
Si=Sigh...I let out a sigh, realizing that Sonya ate the candy bars I'd won in the pet bet.
wel=Well....Well, I guess the clean underwear are a good enough prize.
Kral=Crawl...Do you suppose the fish know the Crawl stroke?
c=c....C razy c reatures c an't c omprehend the c rawl stroke.
The pronunciation, however, doesn't explain how the fish got their names.
And we won't tell you the origin until the next episode. If you can't wait, however, we have provided our e-mail addresses. Clean underwear and candy bars will be be awarded for correct guesses. Additionally, good, but incorrect guesses will be awarded with clues. And of course bad incorrect guesses will be properly answered with subtle hints to go jump in a lake.
