Not Cats

Living on an island in the Central Pacific has a few perks. For example, every now and then I see a dolphin. When that happens, despite any attempts to remain calm, my inner nine-year-old girl comes out and I instantly turn into my younger sister Stephanie at Seaworld circa 1995. Elation.

How the dolphin managed to steal hearts remains a mystery, I mean it's just big fish. But darn if dolphins aren't lovable. You don't see me waiting hours just to spot a trout, and I certainly don't feel the urge to hug a carp. Dolphins however, make me want to skip.

Recently I ate lunch at Shoreline, my usual lagoon-side fish and chips spot. Unusual however, was the table set up with discounted items for sale. I can't resist a sale and the expired herb-flavored Indonesian Colgate lured me in (I bought five at fifty cents each, a steal), but the Japanese fishing hooks kept me around. The hooks were sizable. Very sizable. "Big Game Hooks!" the label read across the top. And down the sides of the package were listed the big game possibilities: "Yellow fin!", "Marlin!", "Swordfish!", "Barracuda!", "Dolphin!".

Wait. What?

That's still a thing?

Cue fiery hell wrath.