Iggy, Piggy, and Ziggy

By Marcel Strigberger

I am on the market for a good family law lawyer; I wish to bring an action against my wife and three kids, for damages for misrepresentation and for a restraining order. As all will soon agree, my case is ironclad. The facts are straight forward.

To my total surprise, my family recently shocked me by bringing home three goldfish. Now don't misunderstand me. It's not that I dislike pets, but my law practice is filled with dozens of daily woes and demands, and I know that if we were to adopt a pet, my wife, two sons and a daughter would promptly acclaim me as Lord High Zoo Keeper, a position that I can ill afford to accept.

Before I could utter my first bark, my wife assured me, "These aren't really pets; they're virtually maintenance-free".

After some healthy debating on the subject, I agreed that the fish could stay on the strict condition that my wife and kids take care of them, and that they not involve me in any way, shape or form.

The opposition unconditionally acceded to all my demands. Number one son, Danny, even wrote out a guarantee to this effect. I was hesitant. But for good measure I made my wife, my nine year old daughter, Natalie, and my seven year old, Gabriel, co-sign the guarantee. Yet notwithstanding this myriad of assurances I still sensed that before long I would become the house Noah.

My wife added that I would enjoy the goldfish as psychological studies have shown that gazing at fish swimming about in a fish bowl is supposed to be very relaxing.

I was in a no lose situation they all agreed, except for my five year old son, Gabriel, who was busy emptying the entire contents of a can of fish meal into the bowl. No doubt he was offering them a welcome banquet.

The four of them then drafted a schedule for feeding the fish and changing the water. I was rightly exempted from these duties.

They named the fish Iggy, Piggy and Ziggy.

Three or four days later I came home after a turbulent day at the office. I needed to unwind. I noticed the fish bowl in the livingroom, and I decided to put my wife's psychological theories to the test. I sat down to watch the three fish calmly swimming around.

After about five seconds into my relaxation drill, I jumped off my seat and summoned the family into the livingroom at once. It seemed that one of the fish was a bit too relaxed, as he was floating on his back. Looked to me that Ziggy had gone to meet his maker.

My daughter, Natalie, saw the poor fish and let out a scream which would readily land her the lead role in the next sequel of Murder on Elm Street. She then ran up to her room and locked herself in. Her parting words were, "No fair."

My wife and Danny both looked at me and said, "Someone has to remove that fish".

They called a quick vote and nominated me. I darted to the basement, unlocked my strong box and removed the guarantee which I proudly flashed in their faces. Clause number 6 clearly provided that I would have absolutely nothing to do with the caring for the fish.

Danny made a quick call to his lawyer. He came back and advised me that "caring" only involved dealing with living fish. Ziggy was now deceased and the guarantee allegedly did not cover undertaking duties.

I wasn't going to remain silent. I shrugged my shoulders and asked how I was supposed to remove the late Ziggy. My wife handed me an empty styrofoam cup. Before removing the fish, I had to remove Gabriel who in the commotion emptied another container of fish meal into the bowl. He thought it might revive Ziggy.

A week or so went by. As I was enjoying a salmon steak, I thoughtfully asked, "Have any of you fed the fish today?" My gang all looked at one another and rushed to the livingroom; all but Natalie who made a bee-line to her room and locked herself in.

As I continued to enjoy my dinner, I was urgently beckoned to the living-room. It was Piggy.

I tried to ignore the fuss when Danny said, "Do you want me to call my lawyer again?"

I asked, "Can I firstly finish eating Figgy, my salmon?"

My wife handed me the styrofoam cup. Gabriel meanwhile tried his hand at CPR on poor Piggy by sprinkling a dose of fish meal in.

Following this event, my daughter resigned from the rotation of caring for the surviving Iggy. In fact, she was terrified to even look at the bowl, in the event that Iggy's number might soon be up. I asked her if she knew what a guarantee was and she said, "No, and I don't care."

After Piggy's unfortunate demise, I wouldn't say that my family lost interest in the fish but things just were not the same. A couple of days later Danny said to me, "Could you please feed Iggy tonight. I have lots of homework."

When I looked at my wife to bail me out, she said, "I know about our guarantee, but this is different."

"There is no way I am getting involved anymore", I affirmed. My wife tossed me the fish meal and left the room. I sprinkled a shot of food into the bowl "but just for today", I swore.

I heard Natalie's voice calling from her room, "Is he still alive?"
A couple of weeks later, I was in the living room, giving Iggy his daily rations. I noticed that he had developed some dark blotches on his head. It didn't look good. I felt like the parish priest of a medieval English village at the onset of the Bubonic plague.

I reported my sighting to the family, and Danny said he was still doing his homework. He said something about a test coming up in three months. My wife asked me, "What can you do about it?"

The following day I got the styrofoam cup.

After a few days of mourning, things got back to normal. My family came over to me as I was relaxing in the livingroom, gazing at the empty fish bowl and said, "There is really very little maintenance involved with a cat..."

Now who wants to take on my case?

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© 2007 Marcel Strigberger. This article CANNOT be copied or reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the Author.