A fishy whisper
It was frigid damp day on the Island of Hawaii, well under 70 degrees Fahrenheit. That day I had to wear shoes, long pants, and a shirt!
My parents were actors participating in a play in a park in the woods. We children were left to our own devices. A wondering child I was that came upon a large pool of water. The surface shimmering and oddly moving about, there were black things wriggling around the shallows. Fish! Kind of big! I could grab one. I did and picked it up and looked; this black fish didn't try to get away or even move, just gaped it's mouth open and shut. I put that guy back into the pond. "Is it sick?" I wondered.
I returned to the pond with two plastic zip-lock bags, I was determined to save at least two. As I gathered the two random sick fish, one per bag, and each were slightly smaller that the bags them selves, but these fish couldn't protest.
I remember whispering to each bagged fish, "Please live."
Well, obviously the bagged fish with it's boney fins protruding through the plastic walls was deaf, as all the water leaked from it's bag.
I did save the one, and threw the surviver in an old cooler of fresh water. I was so proud.
Each day this fish got spunkier, and the black color starting at the head faded into a slick silver. My saved fish had an active peduncle and tail fin movement. I'd chase the fish with my hand to monitor it's energy, fed him or her rolled up dough balls and bugs.
I loved my fish, and so did my four cats, constantly sniffing around the rim of the cooler, testing the lid. Until one day, Boots, my black and white kitty, had him or was it her? for dinner.