A few months after their wedding, two friends of mine went fishing. They anchored in a shady spot for lunch and, being young and in love, one thing led to another. I've no idea about the fishing that day, but nine months later there was indisputable proof something had been caught. The location for this amorous activity was Fool's Bayou, honest.
After hearing that story, I wondered how the bayou's various native life forms might have reacted to what was going on in the fishing rig. Here's one, not so likely, possibility.
...
Bronson the Big Mouth Bass stuck his head above the bayou surface and looked around. What the hell was going on? It was mid-day and too damn hot for any respectable fish to be feeding. Even the dumbest human must realize that. So why had those two in that fancy fishing rig slipped past the screen of willow branches and tied up against the trunk?
The event was so surprising, even Freddie the Frog and Pasquale the Possum had stopped bitching about how humans were the only animals not required to have alliterative names. From their usual spot on the limb of a nearby cypress, they silently studied this phenomenon.
No one ever said humans were smart. But Bronson hadn’t gotten where he was by taking them for granted. Maybe the humans were going to fish for crappie. But that didn’t seem likely. Even the dumb, if passionate, Paula the Perch, wouldn’t be nibbling in this heat, at least not on food.
Bronson was certain there could be no greater calling in life than to be a bass, especially a big bull bass. However, except for an occasional brief, and exhausting, leap out of water, being a bass meant your air-world viewing angles were limited. So he decided to slip over to the cypress and let Freddie and Pasquale fill him in on any action he might be missing.
From his new vantage point among the cypress roots, he looked up at his two friends and asked for a report. “They’re like, you know, feeding,” said Pasquale. He’d spent time on a hippie commune and found the subject of human food very interesting.
“And drinking something in cans,” added Freddie. “It looks like beer. The big guy’s on his third. The little one with the floppy hat is still on number two.”
Even from his low angle, Bronson had seen all that and was not impressed. In his opinion, watching mold grow would have been more exciting. “Is that all? You two long-winded, worthless excuses for friends are supposed to….”
His diatribe was interrupted by new activity on the boat. The smaller of the two humans had just taken off a big floppy hat. With a shake of the head, a whole bunch of long dark hair came tumbling down. The under-sized, longhaired human then gave the big one a smile that, to Bronson, seemed to make the water even hotter.
There was no doubt, the one with longhair was most definitely a female-type human. And what a female. Even Bronson, who looked upon all air-breathers with a certain disdain, was impressed.
The female’s smile got even bigger when the big male moved up and sat beside her in the middle of the boat. No one at the cypress could believe what happened next. The humans began making like sucker fish, going mouth-to-mouth while the male messed with her top.
When their mouths finally parted, the female gave the male a look that made Bronson’s tail curl, and removed the top. The male seemed to like what came into view, especially two odd-looking bumps. At first he had his hands all over them. Then he leaned down and did something like the mouth-to-mouth thing, but on first one of them and then the other. Judging by the look on her face, the female seemed to enjoy all this.
“Psst. Hey, Bronson.” It was Pasquale.
“Yeah, what is it?” Not wanting to miss any of this odd behavior by humans, he hated to look away.
“You won’t believe what else that dude’s up to.”
“Wadda you mean?” This time Bronson’s curiosity got the better of him and he looked up. Pasquale was hanging by his tail. That wasn’t so unusual considering his specie. But on his face was a grin unlike any ever seen on a possum. His forepaws were busy doing something Bronson felt certain he didn’t want to know about.
“Pasquale, what in the name of Moby Dick are you talking about?”
The possum continued watching for a moment, then he glanced down. “Man, that dude is like some kid unwrapping a birthday present. Check it out.”
Bronson looked back. The female was standing while the male shucked off her pants. The boat rocked a bit. But she put her hands on his shoulders and they did more of that mouth-to-mouth action until things settled down.
There wasn’t a whole lot of the female, but what there was seemed to please the male. And Bronson had to admit, she did have a certain slender, symmetrical appeal.
It came as another surprise when she lowered herself in front of the male. After some more mouth-to-mouth, her head vanished from Bronson’s view. “What’s going on, you two? I can’t see a damn thing but that shit-eating grin on his face.”
“Well,” Freddie paused to clear his throat, a nervous habit endemic to his species, then started again. “Well, not much, really, she’s just doing something with her hands. No, wait. Now she’s holding this thing. I swear, it looks like an albino snake.”
Bronson sensed he was being given the business. “Bullshit.”
“No shit,” insisted Freddie. “She’s doing something to it with her hands and it’s gotten bigger. What the…? Okay, I’m not making this up, I promise. But she bent over just now, and that snake-looking thing, it seemed to slide right into her head.”
He looked down at Bronson. “You think this is like some Praying Mantis deal? You know, the female eating the male? Damn, I hope not. That’s one bug that creeps me out.”
“How the hell should I know? One less fisherman is fine by me—cuts pollution and the number of hooks. But what’s happening now?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like she’s having him for lunch, after all. I mean, she’s bobbing, her head up-and-down. And when she’s up, you can still see whatever it is, only now it looks all wet and shiny.”
None of this made any sense to Bronson, who prided himself on his knowledge of human behavior. In the bayou, it could make the difference between living another day and becoming a fillet. “Pasquale, is Freddie making this shit up?”
There was no answer. Bronson steeled himself and looked upward once more. Freddie was sprawled across the limb with his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out. It would have been a pitiful sight under any circumstance, but it was especially so when the tongue in question belonged to a frog.
Bronson felt a bit embarrassed and looked over at Pasquale. The possum’s paws were moving even faster and his grin was, if possible, even bigger. “Pasquale, you pervert! What’s going on in the boat? I can’t see a thing except the male, and I’m tired of looking at his stupid grin.”
“Easy there, Brother Bass. It’s just like old Freddie told you. Mellow out and go with the stroke, so to speak. Oh, yes.”
“Hey, you guys,” Freddie croaked. “Look, now.”
There was no question where they should look. Bronson turned toward the boat. The female was standing with her hands on the male’s shoulders. With slow, careful movements, she straddled him and then eased down onto his lap until they were sitting face-to-face.
At first, all the humans did was more of the mouth-to-mouth stuff. When the boat became still, the female began making small, up-and-down movements. The boat again started rocking, but soon the female’s motions and those of the boat were in a sort of harmony.
“I don’t know what they’re doing,” said Freddie, “but I do like the show.”
Pasquale groaned his agreement.
Bronson had to admit the two in the boat looked like the happiest humans he’d ever seen out fishing. The female was leaning back and seemed to be looking for something up in the limbs of the willow tree. Her long hair swayed in rhythm with the other movements. Meanwhile, the male was doing a mouth-to-mouth type thing on one of her bumps.
“Hey there, you big bass. What’s happening?” The unexpected greeting startled Bronson. It was Paula the Perch, and she was looking great.
“Uh, hi, Paula, just trying to figure out what those humans on the boat are doing. Thought it might be important. I mean, you can’t learn too much about them.” Why did he suddenly feel like a fingerling caught watching all the action during spawning season?
A loud groan and even louder shout came from the boat. The male and female were holding each other close and shaking. But they didn’t seem to be in pain. In fact, they looked very happy.
Paula brushed up against him. “Oh, I know all about that. I was spawned in a lake near a college campus, remember? It’s the way humans, you know, do it.”
“Do, it?”
“Sure,” she languidly stroked his side with a pliant fin, “you know…it..mating.”
“Oh, IT. Of course. So, uh, what do you say about a little demonstration?”
“Since we’re not air-breathers, that’d be a real challenge, silly. But come with me and I’ll try to give you the idea.”
As they began to swim away, Freddie managed to ask, “Where you two going?”
“Off to do a little research on how humans do it,” said Bronson, before slipping beneath the surface and following Paula toward an especially cool, secluded nook.
“Fin-tastic,” said Pasquale. His paws now hung limply at his side. The grin on his face bore a surprising resemblance to that of the male on the boat. “That’s fin-tastic.”
After hearing that story, I wondered how the bayou's various native life forms might have reacted to what was going on in the fishing rig. Here's one, not so likely, possibility.
...
Bronson the Big Mouth Bass stuck his head above the bayou surface and looked around. What the hell was going on? It was mid-day and too damn hot for any respectable fish to be feeding. Even the dumbest human must realize that. So why had those two in that fancy fishing rig slipped past the screen of willow branches and tied up against the trunk?
The event was so surprising, even Freddie the Frog and Pasquale the Possum had stopped bitching about how humans were the only animals not required to have alliterative names. From their usual spot on the limb of a nearby cypress, they silently studied this phenomenon.
No one ever said humans were smart. But Bronson hadn’t gotten where he was by taking them for granted. Maybe the humans were going to fish for crappie. But that didn’t seem likely. Even the dumb, if passionate, Paula the Perch, wouldn’t be nibbling in this heat, at least not on food.
Bronson was certain there could be no greater calling in life than to be a bass, especially a big bull bass. However, except for an occasional brief, and exhausting, leap out of water, being a bass meant your air-world viewing angles were limited. So he decided to slip over to the cypress and let Freddie and Pasquale fill him in on any action he might be missing.
From his new vantage point among the cypress roots, he looked up at his two friends and asked for a report. “They’re like, you know, feeding,” said Pasquale. He’d spent time on a hippie commune and found the subject of human food very interesting.
“And drinking something in cans,” added Freddie. “It looks like beer. The big guy’s on his third. The little one with the floppy hat is still on number two.”
Even from his low angle, Bronson had seen all that and was not impressed. In his opinion, watching mold grow would have been more exciting. “Is that all? You two long-winded, worthless excuses for friends are supposed to….”
His diatribe was interrupted by new activity on the boat. The smaller of the two humans had just taken off a big floppy hat. With a shake of the head, a whole bunch of long dark hair came tumbling down. The under-sized, longhaired human then gave the big one a smile that, to Bronson, seemed to make the water even hotter.
There was no doubt, the one with longhair was most definitely a female-type human. And what a female. Even Bronson, who looked upon all air-breathers with a certain disdain, was impressed.
The female’s smile got even bigger when the big male moved up and sat beside her in the middle of the boat. No one at the cypress could believe what happened next. The humans began making like sucker fish, going mouth-to-mouth while the male messed with her top.
When their mouths finally parted, the female gave the male a look that made Bronson’s tail curl, and removed the top. The male seemed to like what came into view, especially two odd-looking bumps. At first he had his hands all over them. Then he leaned down and did something like the mouth-to-mouth thing, but on first one of them and then the other. Judging by the look on her face, the female seemed to enjoy all this.
“Psst. Hey, Bronson.” It was Pasquale.
“Yeah, what is it?” Not wanting to miss any of this odd behavior by humans, he hated to look away.
“You won’t believe what else that dude’s up to.”
“Wadda you mean?” This time Bronson’s curiosity got the better of him and he looked up. Pasquale was hanging by his tail. That wasn’t so unusual considering his specie. But on his face was a grin unlike any ever seen on a possum. His forepaws were busy doing something Bronson felt certain he didn’t want to know about.
“Pasquale, what in the name of Moby Dick are you talking about?”
The possum continued watching for a moment, then he glanced down. “Man, that dude is like some kid unwrapping a birthday present. Check it out.”
Bronson looked back. The female was standing while the male shucked off her pants. The boat rocked a bit. But she put her hands on his shoulders and they did more of that mouth-to-mouth action until things settled down.
There wasn’t a whole lot of the female, but what there was seemed to please the male. And Bronson had to admit, she did have a certain slender, symmetrical appeal.
It came as another surprise when she lowered herself in front of the male. After some more mouth-to-mouth, her head vanished from Bronson’s view. “What’s going on, you two? I can’t see a damn thing but that shit-eating grin on his face.”
“Well,” Freddie paused to clear his throat, a nervous habit endemic to his species, then started again. “Well, not much, really, she’s just doing something with her hands. No, wait. Now she’s holding this thing. I swear, it looks like an albino snake.”
Bronson sensed he was being given the business. “Bullshit.”
“No shit,” insisted Freddie. “She’s doing something to it with her hands and it’s gotten bigger. What the…? Okay, I’m not making this up, I promise. But she bent over just now, and that snake-looking thing, it seemed to slide right into her head.”
He looked down at Bronson. “You think this is like some Praying Mantis deal? You know, the female eating the male? Damn, I hope not. That’s one bug that creeps me out.”
“How the hell should I know? One less fisherman is fine by me—cuts pollution and the number of hooks. But what’s happening now?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like she’s having him for lunch, after all. I mean, she’s bobbing, her head up-and-down. And when she’s up, you can still see whatever it is, only now it looks all wet and shiny.”
None of this made any sense to Bronson, who prided himself on his knowledge of human behavior. In the bayou, it could make the difference between living another day and becoming a fillet. “Pasquale, is Freddie making this shit up?”
There was no answer. Bronson steeled himself and looked upward once more. Freddie was sprawled across the limb with his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out. It would have been a pitiful sight under any circumstance, but it was especially so when the tongue in question belonged to a frog.
Bronson felt a bit embarrassed and looked over at Pasquale. The possum’s paws were moving even faster and his grin was, if possible, even bigger. “Pasquale, you pervert! What’s going on in the boat? I can’t see a thing except the male, and I’m tired of looking at his stupid grin.”
“Easy there, Brother Bass. It’s just like old Freddie told you. Mellow out and go with the stroke, so to speak. Oh, yes.”
“Hey, you guys,” Freddie croaked. “Look, now.”
There was no question where they should look. Bronson turned toward the boat. The female was standing with her hands on the male’s shoulders. With slow, careful movements, she straddled him and then eased down onto his lap until they were sitting face-to-face.
At first, all the humans did was more of the mouth-to-mouth stuff. When the boat became still, the female began making small, up-and-down movements. The boat again started rocking, but soon the female’s motions and those of the boat were in a sort of harmony.
“I don’t know what they’re doing,” said Freddie, “but I do like the show.”
Pasquale groaned his agreement.
Bronson had to admit the two in the boat looked like the happiest humans he’d ever seen out fishing. The female was leaning back and seemed to be looking for something up in the limbs of the willow tree. Her long hair swayed in rhythm with the other movements. Meanwhile, the male was doing a mouth-to-mouth type thing on one of her bumps.
“Hey there, you big bass. What’s happening?” The unexpected greeting startled Bronson. It was Paula the Perch, and she was looking great.
“Uh, hi, Paula, just trying to figure out what those humans on the boat are doing. Thought it might be important. I mean, you can’t learn too much about them.” Why did he suddenly feel like a fingerling caught watching all the action during spawning season?
A loud groan and even louder shout came from the boat. The male and female were holding each other close and shaking. But they didn’t seem to be in pain. In fact, they looked very happy.
Paula brushed up against him. “Oh, I know all about that. I was spawned in a lake near a college campus, remember? It’s the way humans, you know, do it.”
“Do, it?”
“Sure,” she languidly stroked his side with a pliant fin, “you know…it..mating.”
“Oh, IT. Of course. So, uh, what do you say about a little demonstration?”
“Since we’re not air-breathers, that’d be a real challenge, silly. But come with me and I’ll try to give you the idea.”
As they began to swim away, Freddie managed to ask, “Where you two going?”
“Off to do a little research on how humans do it,” said Bronson, before slipping beneath the surface and following Paula toward an especially cool, secluded nook.
“Fin-tastic,” said Pasquale. His paws now hung limply at his side. The grin on his face bore a surprising resemblance to that of the male on the boat. “That’s fin-tastic.”
