(Fred The Mighty Fish)
Ever since the day I first saw a frog they have fascinated me. The glossy silhouette fluidly leaping across leaves and branches captivates me as much now as it did thirteen years ago. The summers I spent “frogging” which was my term for catching frogs.
I was so spellbound by frogs that at age four would Internet research information about them. One day I had finally gathered enough data to give an educated speech to my mom about a certain Whites leaf frog from Australia and why I should have one. After completing my fifteen-minute report, my plea was brutally shot down by the depressing no that so boldly banged away at my ear.
However she did partially make up for her wicked sin by offering to get me a Siamese fighting fish. I agreed to the deal and got the fish. He was a dark red and royal blue fish about the size of a rose head.
To me he was a rose, a little angel who loved his god (me). A noble name was required for such a pure hearted soul, he was to be Fred the mighty fish.
Every day after school I would eat a snack while intensely watching him paddle his fins and sway his tail back and fourth in the water. I would feed him his flakes one by one to make sure he wouldn’t choke since he never chewed his food. Another thing I would do with him was hide and seek, where I would duck under the counter, count to five and look for him behind the plant in his bowl.
That fish was all the entertainment a four-year-old boy could ever require.