Temperamental Oscar By - Jesse Jensen Oscar seemed to have a terrible time in everything that he attempted. No matter what happened, the blame could right' fully be placed on that long-bodied sucker. He was no ordinary fish. Oh, my goodness no! Oscar would not have been the king of my governed world if he were. Did I say king? Yes, that is exactly what I said. He was a king in his own little four-gallon world. No, I didn't say that he could be king; but through his own fearfulness, he triumphantly crowned himself such. But let us get back to where we were side tracked. It was about Oscar's being no ordinary fish remember? While I was worriedly strolling through our neighboring pet shop one time, my attention was caught by a silent confusion in the glass cage that was showingly situated upon the already overloaded counter. I tried to see what the matter was, but I was unable to visualize anything through the freshly stirred solution of water and mud. I called the storekeeper's attention to it. "I guess I'll have to get rid of that incorrigible fish," he said. "No matter what I'm doing, I'm hurriedly called to rescue some poor victim of Oscar's. No one seems to want to buy him. He is so ugly that he frightens customers away. He surely will make a good meal for the cat some time." I could see Oscar now. He was proudly guarding the entrance to a sea-shell that he had succeeded in defending from some vicious tribes of Guppies that also lived in the tank. One look was all that I needed. "How much do you want for him?" I asked. "How much do I want? Good night, man, you can have him for nothing." I purchased a tank, some feed, and the other necessary articles, and prepared to take Oscar home. But the undertaking was not going to be that easily accomplished. Oscar refused to be caught. Something out of the ordinary was happening, and he knew it. Maybe he could feel it in his bones, that is if he had any. No sir, Oscar was definitely going to stay exactly where he was. He backed down into his shell-house until only his long wavy whiskers were visible. But we fooled him; we took shell and all. That was the limit. Oscar was through. What could he do in a case like this? He wasn't even given a chance to show how he could battle. When Oscar wanted some enjoyment, he would swim for hours at a time from one end of the aquarium to the other. Up and down he would go, gracefully curving his long pencillike body through the pieces of coral and plant life that happened to come in his way. He would glide up to the very glass wall; and then, before you could see him turn, he would be returning from whence he came. He seemed to get a lot of amusement from twisting his body into such shapes, and I often wondered how he ever found his way back to normal position again. Many times his quick temper would get the best of him while he was all tied up in himself. Something drastic would usually happen then. He would get so mad that he actually would tear the bottom of the aquarium up. I have often found him accidentally caught underneath one of the large shells that decorate the bottom of the tank. When I removed the shell, he would just stay still. His eyes would be burning red, while his brain was probably white hot. Then it happened. He would spring forth with the speed of a tiger. He was like some uncontrolled mass of energy bent upon doing all the damage possible within a certain limited time. He was like a tornado that destroys everything in its path. Oscar never left anything intact. After he had finished his rampage, the place looked as if it had been all of no-man's-land during the time of the war. Oscar could do more damage in one minute in comparison to his size than a whole army of soldiers could do in a week. I will never forget the time that I introduced Oscar to his wife-to-be. He was furious. He wasn't going to have a wife if he could help it. No, sir, not him; he actually refused to become a hen-pecked husband. Oscar took one look at his future bride and went on a rampage. Oscar had one habit which one day came to be his downfall. Every so often he would wiggle his way to the surface of the water through the plant-life in the top of the miniature kingdom. Here he would blow bubbles, splash around a bit, take a few gulps of air, and then submerge to see who had been brave enough to enter his private shell-palace during his absence. It was during one of these bubble dances that Oscar breathed his last. One evening I got out my chemical set and started to experiment with different chemicals. By the trial and error method, some hydrogen cyanide (a very poisonous gas) was produced. Immediately I left the room, but Oscar, not knowing what was happening, came to the top to blow bubbles. He took a few gulps of air, thrashed his tail about, and then was still. Through my own carelessness, I had caused the death of a king. Page Ten D. D. S. I'm sick. Honest I am. I can hardly stagger to the elevator, even with my mother's help. No mother, you can't leave now. You've got to stay. I need you. Honest I do. Well, she stays. She can't very well leave with that death grip I've got on her hand. Oh my stomach! Must be the elevator that is lifting it at the same rate of speed. I'm climbing to the fifth floor. The elevator has stopped, but my stomach hasn't. Maybe it isn't the elevator after all. I plod along taking in all the sights. All of what sights? There isn't much to see. Only closed doors with names on that I can't read because of the poor print, or maybe it is just blurred. One, two, three, four, it's the next door. The last one is the door. Oh, I know, I've been here so many times before. My mother pauses at the door to let me open it. My hand is on the knob, but somehow I just haven't got what it takes to turn it. Funny, I've never had any difficulty before. What's the rush, mother? I've got lots of time. I wish I had a lot more. He surely spells his name funny for the way it sounds. What does D. D. S. mean? Okay, you open the door. Somebody has to and I can't. At the first crack in the doorway a peculiar odor comes out. The odor of a dentist's office. I'd know it anywhere, especially here. I peer into the room. A woman sits on the edge of the divan. I feel partially relieved because, "First here first served," even if you have got an appointment. Just then I glance to the doorway. There stands Dr. Alden. He doesn't look mean; in fact he looks rather nice. But he isn't. He is terrible. He must be when he can smile like that at me when he knows I know the ruthless way in which he will torture me in so short a time. Mother! Dad! He's looking at me. I can't be next. That lady. Where is that lady? Where has she gone? The sickening truth dawns upon me. She was waiting to see Doctor Mills. I'm next. Worse than that, I'm now. Now! Good heavens! No, I can't be! How can he smile that way? Mother, stop pushing me. Well, maybe you better push; I'll never get there if you don't. Maybe I won't get there anyway. I'll faint. I know I will. "I know I won't. I never have and I'm too old to start now. That's right, you grab an arm too. I wish I had six more arms and six more people to grab them. I want lots of company when I'm being tortured to death. I always did hate to be alone. Now I almost believe I would like to be. Well, at least alone with my mother and dad; might as well bring in the whole family. They will want to be with me when the end comes. Only get that man out of here. He's a demon. He's going to kill me. I know it. He looks harmless enough, but he's going to just the same. The law ought to take care of men like this. They are a danger to society. Help! I'm going up in the air. I am, honest. I'm rising just like bread, only worse. How did I ever get here? I don't remember anything about sitting down. I can't lift my head. I .can't. It feels as if it is glued back. Great guns! He's choking me. Merciful, isn't he? Didn't want me to know what was coming next. Ouch! Stop pulling my hair, you big oaf. You executioner. Kills people and loves it. His lips move. What does he say? Oh, now mother's trying to say something. What is it you're trying to tell me? Oh yes. "Open your mouth." I can't open my mouth. I've got lockjaw. I have. I'll just show you. I'll try real hard. Now! Darn! It's flipped open. I'll bet he helped. He must have done. I wasn't going to open it for him no matter what. Well, it certainly didn't take him long. He's climbing right in. Say, maybe he was on the inside and popped out. No, I saw him standing out there. Will you please stop walking on my liver? I always thought dentists stood on the floor. But he isn't. He's standing on my lip. Keep those tools out of my mouth. Ouch! You jabbed my tongue with that ice pick. My mouth is filled with blood. No? Here they come. Those inevitable bales of cotton. There they go. You can't get them in there. Stop pulling my lip; it not detachable, you know. Oh, for heaven's sake stop gagging me! Two bales of cotton and my swollen tongue in a hole this size. I'll look like an African negro. Did I say two bales of cotton and a tongue? Well, I neglected to add four fingers and a thumb to the list. He's actually pushing my tongue back. The other end is fastened, funny face. My teeth close resolutely on something warm and soft and yielding. I close them tighter, but a sudden jerk practically removes my upper molars. Gee, I must have bit him, the way he's rubbing his fingers. He's saying something and smiling again. Only not quite so cordially this time; rather sickly in fact for such a big man. What? He's taking the cotton out of my mouth and removing the front towel. Mother is helping me from the chair. Actually, he is telling me to come back again in six months. My teeth are still in good condition from the last visit. "I'm next. Worse than that, I'm now." Page Eleven