Feeding the fish

Crisp morning, feels like fall at last. Our new ritual is to pack various stale snacks in our pockets and go down to the pond to feed the fish. The pond's volume is about half of what it normally has been--the overflow drain (the one that was "overflowing" last spring) is now about 4 feet above the level of the water.

I picture all the fish in there, huddled in the center of what is now just a very big puddle, fighting for space and oxygen. If there were fish conversations (and who am I to say there aren't?), I can imagine them saying things like "Ow!" and "Hey, move over, I was here first!" and "Just because he's a carp, he thinks he's entitled to more water than the rest of us," and "Look out, it's that darn snapping turtle again, we're all going to die!"

OK, maybe too much viewing of Finding Nemo for me. But I do feel for the little fishies, and I find the mindless activity of tossing stale Corn Chex and bits of dog chicken treats very relaxing.
My life isn't that hard compared to a minnow's or a blue gill's.

Just trying to identify what I'm looking at is intriguing, because there's no real way to tell if I'm right or wrong. Except with catfish, of course. That one I know, they're the ones with the big mouths and tails and whiskers. Bill keeps asking me if I'd like to eat one.

I think if you feed them and start anthropomorphizing them and making up conversations for them, the answer is probably "no." I think if I start to hanker after a catfish, I'll just go buy one wrapped in plastic down at the Food City, and keep my pond fish as pets.