Week after week the big guy looked at the whole trout wedged in the bank of ice at the fish counter. Head, tail, fins, and all.
“I want one.”
“Those are not alive anymore. They can’t swim,” I’d tell him.
“I know,” he’d say with a mixture of confusion and proud defiance.
The last thing I needed was meltdown and tantrum that involved the blood guts and smell of a dead fish. The regular ones were bad enough. Tantrums that is. Continue Reading