Today, I fucked up... by releasing a bunch of eels in the kitchen.
This happened when I was a kid but the fuck-up came back to haunt me not too long ago.
When I was young I was extremely infatuated with animals. I was forever bringing home stray cats and injured birds. My dad, a rough trawler fisherman all his life, couldn’t understand his daughters obsession with animals. He believes animals are for food, not cuddling.
And this is how what is now known in our family as the ‘Eel Incident’ came to be.
One day my dad brought home a bucket full of eels he caught from our local lake together with one of our neighbours. Smoked eel is a local delicacy where I’m from, so that what my dad and his mate planned to do with their catch. They were pretty chuffed with themselves, cracked a few celebratory beers outside whilst cranking up the smoker.
Whilst my dad and his friend were getting drunk outside I decided to have a peak at their catch in the kitchen. I peeled the lid off the bucket and was surprised to discover the 30+ eels in the bucket were still alive, just wriggling and sliding in a giant slime ball.
My bleeding heart immediately kicked in. Those poor eels! They don’t even have water! How are they supposed to breathe?! So I sprung in action and threw a pan full of water in the bucket. The eels liked it, they wiggled more. Another pan. More movement. I was delighted… Until one of the bigger eels broke loose from the ball and managed to slide over the edge of the bucket.
Drats. I hadn’t anticipated that. And I realised I was in lots of trouble if my dad found out I tampered with his catch. So I tried to grab the eel and put it back with his slimy friends. Great plan except that holding a slippery eel is a lot like, well… holding a slippery eel.
After many frantic attempts I finally got a good hold of the creature and quickly tried to put it back in the bucket. But a fatal combination of my panic, clumsiness and complete lack of coordination (which I still suffer from to this day) I accidentally kick over the bucket.
At this moment my dad hears the commotion and opens up the door to find me frozen in the middle of a quickly spreading carpet of eels, whilst still desperately clutching one individual.
He quickly responds and frantically starts to catch the eels before they spread further. But, again, eels are mighty slippery and it didn’t help that I added two panloads of water to the slimy mess that is now our kitchen floor. Right behind my dad is our neighbour who was a bit tipsy after the celebration beers. He immediately comes to my dads assistance but forgets to close the door behind him, allowing his feisty little Jack Russell terrier to come in. The dog snaps into full possessed kill mode, catching and shaking the eels at a demonic speed. Slime and fishguts splash up the kitchen walls. The neighbour starts yelling at the dog, I start wailing, my mum comes running in and starts screaming when she sees the mayhem that is her kitchen. In all this confusion my dad looses his balance on the slimy floor, slips over, crushes 3 eels and breaks a finger.
I can’t remember how it all ended because I was send off to my room and had to stay there for 2 weeks. I do remember the kitchen stinking like fishguts for months after, no matter how much my mum scrubbed it. And me hearing about it every time she did.
The Eel Incident happened about 20 years ago. 5 years ago my parents sold their house and the new owners did some renovations to the kitchen. Behind one of the cupboards they discovered what they thought were the remains of a snake (which is pretty unlikely since my parents live in Holland). When my dad came over to inspect he found that it was in fact the mummified remains of a getaway eel.
TL;DR: Me trying to help a bucketload of eels causes great pain and suffering for everyone involved. Except the dog. The dog had a fat time.
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