Really, Though, SHOULD You Loan a Car to the Cat?

Goldie Spawn, a goldfish of what can only be assumed to be of a pot-bellied variety, is floating, as she usually does, upside down.
There she is, in the corner there, flat on her spine, a mere mouthful of a fish with the power to make me stop and peer anxiously into the tank.
“Whoops,” I think. “Looks like ol’ Goldie finally –”
And then the little bugger blinks, flips over, and swims coyly to the bottom of the tank, where she no doubt has a good laugh with her little goldfish buddies, Gill Meloche, Lady G’Agua, Cuddy, and, of course, Blanket.
I stop and stare at her at least once a day.
Dammit.
You’d think I’d get used to it, like I do so with so many of the other petty annoyances of this modern life. Whereas my foremothers lugged pails of water up hills and carved homes out of prairie sod with nary a moment for such foolishness as trying to get inside a goldfish’s head, I am confronted with murder mysteries and the tortured musings of transitory plecostomii.
I’m tired.
“Well for heaven’s sake,” says Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys), sipping a gin and tonic, “you can’t possibly compare now and then, can you?”
I shake my head, briefly, wonder if that’s my gin the cat is drinking.
“You work enough,” she purrs from the easy chair, a delicately curved claw moving iridescently melting ice cubes. “Why don’t you go lay down?”
I snort. “Not likely,” I say. “Last time we made that arrangement I woke up to a kitchen full of cats with their paws in the butter.”
Liza Bean’s emerald eyes narrow with pleasure. “Yessssss,” she smiles.
I shake my head again, squint into the tank. Goldie is back up in the corner, on her back as usual, her showy fins moving gently.
“Maybe I will lay down for a bit,” I say, lying back on the couch and closing my eyes. “No visitors, though, okay? For me?”
Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) sets her drink down, jumps onto my chest. “You wouldn’t mind if I took the car for a bit, would you?” she hums.
I open my eyes. She’s already holding my car keys.
“Just for a bit,” I say.
“Of course,” she says.