Popeye

Posted by Jennifer Gay Summers in PawPrints On My Heart | Comments Off

May 17, 11

© Jennifer Gay Summers

It was late Sunday afternoon and the realtor asked if she could show us one last house. My husband, Ron, and I were tired, but decided to give it a shot. When she opened a back yard gate into a garden blossoming with rosy Azaleas, springtime Calililes, and a fish pond, complete with a little wooden bridge and a cascading waterfall, I took a deep breath, squeezed Ron’s hand and smiled. A myriad of enchanting Koi swam in a quiet ballet from one end of the rippling pond to the other, glimmering in russet orange, coppery gold, and fiery red hues. I whispered in his ear, “We’re home.”

The first day I returned to our new home from my teaching job in downtown L.A., I grabbed the Koi pellets and hurried into our back yard. The stress of teaching high-risk kids and a one hour commute dissolved as I walked outside and breathed in the honeysuckle trailing over the trellis. I looked down into the pond, and as if on cue, they came to me, swimming through the leafy reeds. Twenty-five bodies slithered over and under each other, big ones knocking little ones out of the way, all of them opening their mouths and begging for food. Nora, the previous owner, had given me strict instructions not to feed them too much, and it hurt to see some of the babies get pushed away by the greedier adults. When the pellets were gone, they all swam off, navigating the aquamarine water with a gentle rhythm all their own.

All except one. An orange, white, and black marbled Koi remained, his mouth opening for more food, his fins waving in lazy circles. He was medium in length, chubby compared to the others, but full of personality. His big, dark eyes looked me over and I wondered if he’d take my finger. Nora had told me some of the Koi were so friendly, they’d suck on your finger, thinking it was food. So, I crouched down and slowly put my finger into the pond. He immediately swam over and took the bait, sucking it with such a powerful grip I had to lean over the pond to balance. “Hold on a minute, buddy,” I crooned, and took my opportunity with my other hand to stroke his wet, scaly body.

After a few seconds, he realized my finger wasn’t food and let go, swimming over to the waterfall and executing a perfect back flip under the flow. I walked over the wooden bridge to a bench on the other side of the pond and sat, still marveling that the little guy had let me pet him. It wasn’t long before he followed, my curious Koi. He treaded water on the edge of the pond closest to my bench, regarding me again with those orbed, black, intent eyes.

It became a daily ritual. After all the Koi had been fed, my new friend would swim up and visit with me and suck my finger, even though he knew by now it wasn’t food, and allow me to pet him. Then, he’d follow me around the pond, his small head popping up wherever I chose to sit.

Every afternoon, I told him my stories. “You’ll never believe what my kids told me today. Cesar, he was shot in a drive by and is in the hospital, Maria, she’s pregnant and only 15, Hector’s afraid to cross the street to get to school…”

His eyes never left me as he floated softly in the feathery algae, his very presence a soothing balm that hypnotized my muscles into quiet repose. Our time together eased my worries and challenges, restoring my peace of mind.

One day, his left circular eye seemed different, a slight bulge to its shape. I got out my Koi handbook and found out he had Dropsy, possibly from a bacterial invasion. The prognosis wasn’t good and the dangerous condition could spread to the other Koi. I knew I shouldn’t keep him, but I took the risk.

With a new urgency, I rushed home to my little friend after school each day and up he popped, one enormous eye bulging from his head. I gave him my finger to suck and petted him with a trembling hand, praying he would survive. Maybe these moments made a difference because not only did he make a full recovery, practically unheard of with this infection, but no other fish were stricken with the same disease. His eye receded and in tribute, I named him Popeye, the nickname for Dropsy.

Even though I loved all my Koi and some of the others would let me pet them, none of them followed me around or gave me the soulful communion I had with Popeye. One day, I came home from my commute and dropped the food pellets into the pond. “Popeye, I’m home,” I called.

All the Koi came except Popeye. Praying he was under the bridge or hiding in the reeds, I crouched down and waited, my heart beating fast. He had never missed one of our afternoons together. Eventually, my eye picked out a small shape on the floor of the pond and I recognized Popeye. I buried my head in my arms on the cold brick edge of the pond and wept.

Five years later, we welcomed a daughter into our lives and needed more living space. I sadly bade farewell to our Koi pond. But I kept the bench and put it outside under an oak tree in our new back yard. When things get difficult and I feel overwhelmed, I go outside and sit on the weathered bench, close my eyes and think of Popeye. His sweet spirit fills my heart again and I am at peace, grateful for his everlasting gift of friendship.