Hooked

Jonathan lightly pinched the wriggling worm between his index finger and thumb. Its slick segmented body squirmed about as he drove the tip of a fishhook through it. What is this poor worm thinking? Jonathan thought as he gazed for a moment at the hook. Oh well. It's for a greater cause.

Jonathan's grandfather, William, commanded his pre-teen kinsman to cast his bait into the water before it wore itself out. The bobber soon made a soft smacking sound as it crashed into the surface of the water. Though there was not another soul for miles, the area around the pond was teeming with noise. The cicadas and crickets combined into a muddled cacophony. The two of them sat in well-worn folding chairs in the back of a well-worn red truck.

Jon and Bill spent hours in the back of Bill's truck. Nary a word was spoken between the two of them. They stared at their respective floating pieces of plastic as the sky around them went from pink to yellow. Once nine o'clock came, they both reeled in what was left of their bait, closed the styrofoam container that housed the nightcrawlers, and reentered the cab. A fifteen minute jaunt and they were back to the cottage.

Jon lacked the stomach to eviscerate fish. Bill, being a compassionate man, never forced him to. As a result, all the fish that were caught were shortly thereafter thrown back. It was enough for Jon to spend a week's worth of mornings with his grandpa in the back of a a truck.

Given the small size of the fishing hole the Westinghower's frequented, it was inevitable that the same fish were caught more than once. The last summer that Jonathan fished with William, he reeled in a particular blue gill for the second time. Carefully grabbing it around its spiny fins, Jon was dismayed by the fish's appearance. Years ago, William had promised a younger Jonathan that the fish quickly healed from their wounds owing to the cleanliness of the water they lived in. The particular fish he held then in his hands showed no such regenerative abilities. It hopelessly puckered the remaining half of its lower jaw as the gleam of brass shined out of its right eye. Previously maimed in the mouth, it now suffered the degradation of blindness. Jon became queasy at the sight. I'll never fish again! This poor fish! Caught twice and for what?! Only to be thrown back and caught again next year?

Unsure of what to do next, Jon held the fish in his hand. Bill, noticing his grandson's hesitation, asked him for his catch. As carefully as possible, Bill removed the burred hook from the blue gill's face. He tossed it into the pond. It landed with a splash and flourish of motion as it dove back into the murky depths.

"I want to go home."
"It's not nine yet."
"I know that, but I want to go home."
"Are you upset about that fish?"
"I don't want to fish any more."
"Because that fish is a little worse for the wear?"
"For God's sake grandpa, he can't eat or see right anymore!"
"He got two meals out of the deal."
"You're inhumane! I want to go home!"
"What does humanity have to do with fish?"
"We shouldn't just hurt animals for the fun of it."
"We weren't trying to hurt animals, were we?"
"Being stabbed must hurt."
"If you can figure out a better way to bring them out of the water so we can get a better look at them, I'm all for it. As it is, we have to skewer them a little."
"We don't fish to see fish better."
"We don't? Well, what do we do it for?"
"I don't know."
"Because you wanted to when you were younger. You were all sorts of excited at the opportunity to go on a fishing expedition in the great unknown of your grandparent's farm."
"Well, I've seen enough of the farm."
"Have you seen enough of your grandpa?"
"If it means we have to hurt innocent animals, yes."
"You didn't have an issue hooking the worms. They are the ones that great the real raw deal out of this activity. They get gored only to be eaten."
"All the more reason not to fish anymore."
"Pain isn't so bad. You shouldn't let it have the only say in deciding whether to do something or not. Sometimes pain is worth it."
"What does a fish--or a worm--get out of being apart of our game?"
"Like I said, the fish gets a little meal. It gets to live a little longer. As for the worm, well...it's more of a sacrifice. We thank it for letting us have time together."
"I don't think the worm is busy thanking us."
"You think the worm is busy holding it against us?"

Jon paused thinking for a while. He could see his grandfather was getting the upper hand in the conversation and opted for obstinacy rather than continue to reason with him.

"Can we please go home?"
"Fine."

The two fishermen shared a quiet ride home, and never went out to the pond again.