Tusk Seems Grumpy
Yes, Tusk seems uncharacteristically, unduly, unacceptably, unbecomingly, un-Tusk-ly grumpy this afternoon. And, for the life of me, I am not quite sure why.
After all, I fed him his standard daily ration of 13 full ounces of flaked tropical fish food with all of the recommended essential nutrients and balanced minerals just over an hour ago. I had cleaned the entire glass of his fishbowl only yesterday, buffing it to a glistening clarity. And his water was completed changed out for fresh room temperature pH-balanced de-ionized non-fluoridated H2O on Tuesday, just as it is every 3 weeks, like clockwork.
So what in the world is this particular piscine pouter’s problem?
Could it be that he is no longer fond of the reruns of Flipper and Spongebob and 50,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Run Silent, Run Deep and Love Boat and Titanic and Sea Hunt that I have regularly run for his benefit, on the flat-screen looming over his bowl? Should I instead switch over to cable news? Or to Westerns? Or to soaps? Or to NFL Monday Night Football? Or to reality shows? Could a creature with no legs and a minimal exposure to rhythm or syncopation really appreciate Dancing With the Has-Been Sitcom Stars Newly Released from Rehab?
Perhaps Tusk is just upset with the new tablecloth upon which he resides. I realize that we had both long enjoyed the previous fringed oilcloth with the psychedelically-hued scene of the Grateful Dead hanging drunkenly out the windows of a tie-dyed tour bus. But I felt that particular element of den décor was finally and definitely outré. Our abode required a calmer, more zen-like interior. We needed a change of pace, Tusk and I. So I opted for the current fine muslin covering of pale pewtery ivory (with a delicate fleur-de-lis-ish silken stitching about the perimeter — very ‘Pottery Barn’, I thought). Maybe Tusk is simply looking down on this new fabric that he spends his days and nights looking down on.
Or have I gone too far, by changing the music that regularly lilts over his globular domicile? I know that he always seemed to perk up whenever Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass segued to the chorus of some memorable Mexicali tune. And indeed he would splash and swirl anytime James Brown was deep into some guttural funk riff. But are the greatest hits of ABBA all that bad? Isn’t Traci Chapman euphonious enough? Won’t he in his watery world be wooed by selected Beatles’ classics being played out on panpipes? Is his demeanor that of a music critic’s disgruntlement?
Then again, maybe Tusk is in need of a companion. Would a fishy fraulein eradicate the scowl from my pet’s visage, make him flip his fins with glee, blow bubbles of exuberance and romance? Should I spruce up his bowl with a gnarly sprig of fuchsia coral? Or one of those cute little pirate’s chests, complete with skull and crossbones upon it, and a spray of gold coins trickling out the slightly gapped lid? How about a tiny demure mermaid, nipples chastely covered with wee blue seashells?
Will somebody tell me, just what in the underwater world is this overgrown fish’s problem?
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