Heron Today-Gone Tomorrow

So I, finally, make it back home after an extra-rough trip.  All I want in the world is to sit in a hot bath, drink a cup of tea, and stare out at our peaceful back yard.  The last thing I'm expecting to see is fish flying through the air.


        I must have dozed off and wake with a jolt when a shadow passes over the window.  There's this huge, prehistoric-looking bird circling, then expertly coming in for a landing on our back fence.  Its massive wingspan seems to fill up our small yard.


        I leap out of the tub, start yelling at the top of my lungs: "No!  No!  Go Away!  Nooooo!" and pound on the window as hard as I can.

        Apparently, the racket gets Michael's attention.  I hear his desk chair move in the room above me, then footsteps pounding down the stairs.

        The marauding beast dive-bombs our tiny pond and grabs one of our biggest and prettiest fish.

        Michael rushes in:  "What's wrong?  

        'That heron's back and he's got a fish!"

        Michael turns on a dime and runs out of the room.  A second later I see him snatching something off the deck and throwing it at the bird.  The heron squats down a little, then hurls himself into the air.

        The impish, smiling, face of a little resin garden gnome statue goes whizzing, end over end, toward the bird.  It barely misses its head.  The heron lets out a loud, squawking protest.

        I sink back down into the tub and am in tears when Michael comes back in.

        "That was my favorite fish!"

        "You say that about all of them."

        I'm indignant.  The laws of nature seem perfectly reasonable, as long as they're not being applied to the beautiful goldfish that we've raised since they were minnow-sized.  Now here's this bird picking off our little friends one fish at a time.

         Michael is chuckling about the whole thing.  "It must have been a shock for that fish.  He was just minding his own business in the pond one second, then flying through the air the next.  And how many fish get the opportunity to sky-dive?"

        "The heron dropped the fish!!?"  I jump up and grab my robe.  "So, he's alive?!  Where did he fall?"

        "In the lot behind the alley, but..."

        I shove my feet into the nearest pair of shoes, scramble to the kitchen, and start filling a pitcher with water.

         Michael is trailing me attempting to talk some sense.

        "Listen; he was clamped in a giant bird's mouth, fell about 20 feet to the hard ground, and now he's sucking in air instead of water."

        "So we have to HURRY!  Get the car!"

        Michael assesses my wild-eyed look and, apparently, decides I will blame him forever if he doesn't help.  Managing not to roll his eyes, he grabs the car keys, and leaves to get the car.

        When the pitcher is full, I run out the front door and jump in the car.   The tires squeal as we tear around the corners to the lot at the opposite side of the block.  I leap out before the car stops, and slosh water as I trot across the lot.  I have to lift my feet high and do this crazy flick of the foot with each step, to avoid tripping on the tall grass and the untied laces of the hiking boots I threw on.

        "To the left!", Michael yells.

        I make a jerky, zig-zag path to the left and, eventually, spot the fish.

        His deep orange body is on its side.  He seems to be in one piece but his eye stares up blankly.

        My heart falls.  "Poor fishie!"

        I lean down to pick him up and plunge him head first into the pitcher.  He just sits there.

        I start running back to the car, wondering how to go about performing fish CPR.

        That's when I notice I have an audience.

        There are ten or fifteen people; grandmothers, little kids..., lined up along the fence staring at me with mouths open.  Chairs and tables set up outside.  Smoke and yummy smells are coming from a barbecue grill.  The Garcia's, who live next door to the lot, have abandoned their family celebration to watch the wild scene.  All I can make out from the mumbled conversations is the word loco.  

        I clutch at my robe and fail to come up with something to say to make my behavior seem normal.

        So I run back to the car as fast as my untied shoes will let me, jump in, and we peel out back around the block.

        Much to our relief, the instant the fish hits the water of the pond he swims off with a swagger of its back fins like nothing's happened.

        We are ecstatic.  We declare a celebratory Happy Hour and spend a long time staring into the pond imagining what the fish must be thinking.

        "What a great story that fish has to tell the other fish!"

         "It would be embarrassing if the other fish had already divvied up his stuff, thinking he'd never be back."

         "He'll, probably, achieve some sort of mythical status.  He'll be like Harry Potter.  From now on he'll be known as:  The Fish That LIVED!"  

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        Sadly, in spite of our best efforts, the next day 'The Fish That Lived' became 'The Fish That Floated On Top of The Pond.'

         I don't know if it was internal injuries, the fact that I plunged the fish into chlorinated tap water, or the sad knowledge that he was unlikely to ever feel the joy of flight again.

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Have you ever had a similar conflict-of-interest with Mother Nature?