My new chum

Okay, it's me again. Goldie the badass Cichlid. I wanted to take a moment and give you my side of the story of when Skinny Guy decided to allow a lesser fish to infiltrate my home.

I'll be the first to admit that fish aren't overly exciting to humans. You can wrestle with a dog, take it for a walk, or train it to attack ner-do-wells, but you can't do those things with most fish (and please don't try). Cats suck too, but for altogether different reasons, the most important of which is they tend to enjoy folks like myself as hors d'oeuvres. So why is it that once you crazy people have one fish, you feel the need to have another? Do you think it's better for my own psyche, like I need a friend to play Chutes & Ladders with? If so, you're wrong. I like my space. I like my privacy. And, most importantly, I like having all the food to myself. (note that I'm not counting Coral, the algae sucker, as a friend. He's more like a Roomba.)

After being here for about two weeks, Skinny Guy, followed by the Things, showed up with a plastic baggie in his hand. "Look at what the cat dragged in" doesn't begin to describe this ridiculous excuse for a fish he brought home with him. "Bait" comes a little closer. The new guy, whom they decided to name "Dusty" after some horrible dog from Skinny Guy's childhood that I hear mauled little children until he was crushed by a Chevy Nova, was dumped into the tank and the family outside smiled, thinking they'd given me a life partner. Oh please. You may as well have bunked Luke Skywalker with one of the Tusken Raiders (check Wikipedia, you'll get it).

As soon as Dusty was freed from the bag, he got a good look at me and, rightfully so, swam to the opposite corner and cowered. Just for giggles, I swam over and gave him a little nudge, just to see what he'd do. Nothing. I nudged him again. Nothing. So I gave him a slap with my tail, called him my beeyotch, and told him to do my bidding.

At this point, Skinny Guy realized the error of his ways. He then got the fool idea of taking us out of the tank and putting us into a soup container for a couple of hours as a bonding session. Oh, we bonded. Dusty sat at the bottom of the container, and I sat on top of his sorry little ass until while he struggled to breathe. Meanwhile, Skinny Guy cleaned things out of the tank, rearranged the furniture, and put up posters from Switzerland in an attempt to make the place feel more like a neutral setting rather than the private domain of Goldie the Badass Cichlid, in hopes of giving Dusty a better foothold. Not likely.

For the next day, Dusty did nothing but smell up the tank. And that REALLY annoyed me. If you invited someone into your home who did nothing but sit on your couch and poop, how would you like it? Yeah I know, I know, "Invite him? Hell, I married him" would be the proper response there, but this is my stand-up routine, not yours.

The more he sat there, the more things started to smell. Now, had Skinny Guy done his research, he would have learned something important about me, and that is when I get pissed I turn black. No, seriously. This is like totally the coolest. You know how that Bruce Banner guy turned all big and green when he got pissed? I do the same thing, but in black. My face gets all cinched up, my fins and body turn a deep shade of the darkest night, and my fists and legs grow to twice their...okay, maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

So Skinny Guy sees this, and starts to worry. Oh no, my poor little fishy is sick! Whatever shall we do! Sucker. After about a day of looking like Darth Vader, Skinny Guy removed Dusty (and I assume flushed him, as I would have), and I went back to my normal golden self.

If you ever want privacy, try that some time. Trust me, it's cool. Turning a different color is one of the better super powers out there.