Stories and Fables and Cautionary Tales
After posting about pet blessings, I began thinking about some of the creatures we've cared for over the years. Wisdom encourages us to observe and learn from animals-- ants, birds, horses, sheep and leviathan (whatever that is). I grew up reading cautionary tales about various animals-- bears, foxes, rabbits, turtles and, my personal favorite, green-eyed dragons with 13 tails (probably a leviathan). When I was a young child I didn't always understand the logic of some of the stories; didn't get why the fox declared the grapes to be sour because he couldn't reach them; didn't understand why a gingerbread man would taunt those who would consume him or accept a fox's offer to ferry him across a river. I loved the tale about the lion and the mouse, though, and still appreciate it's lesson that showing mercy will benefit both the person who receives and the one who offers it.
Caution #1: Gus and Agnes, Myra and Myrna
Gus and Agnes were the first pets --if goldfish can be classified as pets--that Paul and I cared for after we began having kids. They really belonged to then two-and-a-half-year-old Kelle, but both fish died before she was old enough to to be even minimally responsible for them.
One day as we prepared to leave our house for vacation I called Myra, my next door neighbor, to see if she would be available to care for the mute pair. I accidentally called Myrna, however, who lived nearby and whose phone number was one digit off from Myra's. Myrna was wife to a respected professor emeritus who taught at the college where Paul worked, and though I didn't know either Prof nor his wife particularly well, I deeply respected Prof--so much so, I might add, that I'd never in all eternity ask either him nor his sainted wife to babysit our goldfish. I'd ask Myra, though, even if she had been secretary to the college's former president. Myra kind of watched over our young family from her second story apartment window during the four years we lived as neighbors. She was aware of our comings and goings, watched with amusement as I played with Kelle in the yard or took her across the street to walk on the college campus. At Christmastime each year Myra shared how much she enjoyed our lighted tree which she could see through our living room window. We didn't mind that she looked through our window, though we sometimes wondered (and worried) what else she may have seen but didn't say. In any case, I had no doubt that Myra would be happy to feed our fish.
But alas, I was exchanging polite conversation with Myrna, not Myra, and asked her if she'd consider taking Gus and Agnes for a week. Myrna asked who Gus and Agnes were and I found her question to be a peculiar: Myra (with whom I thought I was speaking) had suggested those names when the fish came to live with us. She's growing forgetful, I thought, and responded oh so condescendingly that they were, of course, our pet goldfish. Myrna (to whom I was speaking) chuckled and commented that she loved Gus and Agnes--apparently some famous couple--and would be happy to care for fish named after them. Then Myrna promised come pick them up after her last piano lesson of the day (emphasis mine). Now, I had been to Myra's apartment multiple times and had never seen a piano in any of her apartment's two-and-a-half rooms, so for the next few seconds of our continued conversation I wondered where she may have taught piano lessons and to whom. Then Myrna mentioned something about her husband. Ok, Myra was single all of her 70+ years and to my knowledge had no need of a husband. Ever. That's when I knew I wasn't talking to Myra. I still don't know how I figured out I was talking to Myrna because, as I already mentioned, I didn't really know her. When I did realize my error, my lips went numb and what followed proved it: "Oh, goodness Myrna--oh, mercy, I mean Mrs.___!! I would never call you by your first name!! And I would never have called you to watch our fish! Pardon? Oh! Goodness, yes! Of course I believe you'd do an excellent job caring for Gus and Agnes, but I didn't MEAN to call you--I mean you are--well, you and Prof are so--pardon? Oh, yes! Of course! Myra is certainly a great person, too!" To this day I can't believe I had my first conversation with the wife of a virtual geriatric academic rock star about goldfish!
When I finally was able to take back my request for fish-care, I thanked Myrna for her offer and promised to ask her to take over if it didn't work out with Myra. It took the rest of the day for any feeling to come back into my lips.
Cautionary tales often end with a terse summary having to do with what the animal did or didn't do, sometimes telling the reader to do it or not. The morals are often obvious--like the story about the fox who tricked a goat into jumping into a well so he, the fox, could climb out via the goat's back. Since the reader is led to assume that the goat probably died in the well, the author's moral is, "Look before you leap." Really? Well, thank you. Even if I'm five, I think I can figure that out. At times, like the story of the fox and the grapes, the caution isn't that obvious--at least it wasn't to me when I was five. My cautionary tale is, I realize, mostly about me (small wonder) and I'm sure that many conclusions could be drawn concerning the tale of Gus and Agnes; among them, "look before you dial." But I'd also like to mention something about gold fish: they are easy pets. They don't live long and when they die it's usually not your fault. Burial costs nothing unless you figure the price of a flush. In fact, if you dump the contents of the fish bowl into the toilet just before you leave town and forget to flush, they may still be alive when you return. They're members of the carp* family, after all. If you'd rather not do that, call Myrna. She'd love to watch your fish.
Yes, I meant to type "carp."
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