A fishy story

      I bought another fish this weekend to keep Churchill company. It's a fan-tail goldfish, and its name is Bo. Let's hope it survives for a while. The other fish at the store had apparently heard of me. While my back was turned, I quite clearly heard the phrase "aquarium of death." I ignored it.
      Churchill is now three years old and fat and healthy. So far he's outlived all the other fish I've purchased. There's something sinister about that. I've often wondered if he hasn't been doing the other fish in, but he seems totally innocent. Of course, he's a good actor -- you should see his portrayal of Hamlet -- but still, I think he's sincere. I've thought about asking him, but if he's innocent, I'll just offend him. And if he's not, I'll be tipping him off. He might decide that I need to be filtered.
      Sometimes as I sit in my recliner, I can feel him watching me, his unblinking eyes showing that unfathomable look. I try not to look at him then. I don't want to seem as if I know anything. I don't want to sleep with the fishes. For one thing, it's wet and cold, and I can never get comfortable.
      Don't misunderstand me. There are a lot of good qualities about Churchill. He did great in school. He never talks at the movies even though he does hog the popcorn. And he's a very safe driver. But still there's just something fishy about him.