Sunday With a Purpose

The plecostomus regards me with antediluvian eye, which he pulls into his skull from time to time in a fishy wink. He is happiest after a water change, for he battles the vacuum siphon as an invader and he gets to win every time; it's good for his psyche to imagine victory in an uneven fight. He's a pretty thing, mottled grey and black in spotted camouflage with about thirteen inches to his exoskeletal bulk.

Plecos jump, so there are rocks on top the aquarium to keep him humble. My last large one jumped in the night, and if the cats had anything to do with it, they would have brought him to me in bed as a gift and there would have been reunion and rescue. These fish can stay out of water for a bit, but a sad ending concluded this life, for he was dried out and stiff as a board when I found him behind the tank on the floor, poor creeter.

The recent puddlejumper has attempted escape twice, for his fishy nose gets skinned as evidence and owch, I squirt medicine in the water for healing. Starting out as a $3.50 two-inch baby he is now over a foot, burgeoning upon fourteen inches. He's a good boy. May live for twenty years. Lives like a small, crabbed king.

Oh, I have ideas. I want to paint the apartment in colors deigned to lift mood and O, it's the winter solstice tomorrow! Daylight will begin extending into summer frolic and late nights on porches with cool drinks and friends. Reading the Almanac daily gives increments of hope and light but look at me, living in the future as compared to being here today. What else is new.

I have to remember not to live in the When of time, for When usually doesn't appear. If it does, there arrives another When immediately to supersede whatever victory was achieved in the last uneven fight. Or a cap falls off a tooth, or the car needs repair, or the cat gets sick, or the student loan people don't like me anymore, or too many papers are due requiring in-depth research like I'll remember any of that stuff. Everyone has a When, I think. Or a You. Or an If. Hm. Write me what you think and mail it in with a boxtop from Jesus H. Crispies, the cereal that multiplies and feeds the hoard. See you later, another chill night is coming. Close the doors and pull up the blankets. Count your whiskers, as I tell the cats, and be grateful. Dream.