I woke up last night to fangs clamping down on my skull. It’s rarely a pleasant surprise to discover that something in the dark is trying to eat you headfirst, but I was more annoyed than frightened–it was the fourth time this had happened since midnight. I mumbled something incoherent and pushed my attacker away, then fell back asleep almost instantly. The fanged menace slunk back into a shadowy corner of the room to watch me sleep, emerging every so often to pounce on my feet under the blanket. The fifth or sixth time I felt something grab onto my ankle through the comforter, I gave up on sleep. I sat up and stared blearily into the monster’s yellow eyes.
“Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Purrchill,” I said, “I do not bite your feet while you’re sleeping. Kindly return the favor.”
“Mraow,” he said, and tried to bite my eyebrow.
I’m petsitting a fish. Well, technically my roommate is petsitting the fish, but she’s been gone every weekend for the last month, so on weekends and holidays, Mojo’s care falls to me. I’m not big on fish, and this arrangement makes me feel like a divorced parent with an embarrassingly ugly child.
I’m pretty sure my dislike for all things scaly stems from a scarring high school experience with a betta fish named Stu Jorge. I had him for all of 24 hours before he died in the middle of the 2007 Oscars, probably due to the intense hatred we shared for Leonardo DiCaprio. In our brief time together, Stu Jorge made me realize something: Fish are terrible people.