When the Cats Get Out of the Bag

If you grew up in a brown or blue collar working family in small town America, you probably know about bullheads.  For the benefit of the less fortunate, bullheads are a type of small, stout catfish that thrives where fish of the more delicate kinds cannot.  It can get along well in less desirable ponds alongside dragon flies, and snapping turtles.  That's why as a boy I could fish for bullheads, and no cared.

Bullheads are tough, and while generally easy to catch, they don't take kindly to being carved up.  Ask any experienced bullhead fisherman what it feels like to be "finned" by one of its three nasty spikes, and their facial expression will instantly turn painful.

They are not considered a highly prized game fish, but cooked right, few things on earth are as delectable as pan fried bullheads.  Smoked salmon, baked cod, and pan seared trout may make the cover of gourmet magazines, but taste-for-taste, pan fried bullheads are a gastronomical epicurean delight fit for a king.

That's what prompted me as a boy of about fourteen to talk my mother into letting me spend the night camped on the banks of small farm pond.  The promise of a huge catch of tasty bullheads was not lost on her either, and may possibly have been the deciding stimulus for permission.

In anticipation of keeping a huge haul alive and fresh overnight, I took along a burlap sack.  One end would be tied by a rope to a tree on the bank.  A large flat rock would serve as a stopper on the opening.

Bullhead after fat bullhead were caught, and placed in the burlap sack.  I think it must have been around midnight when the last bullhead was stuffed in the sack.  How many I do not recall, but I do remember that the cats were in the bag, and the bag was full.  I curled up in an old wool army blanket, and fell asleep a wonderfully happy camper.

It must have been about the time the sun was making its appearance that I awoke.  Mother had promised to pick me up around daylight, so I wanted to be next to the road with my supplies in tow, and of course, a bag of bullheads!

Now, if you think you know where this is going, you may already be feeling sympathy for me.  I really don't need any now, but I sure could have used it back then! 

Yes, the bag was empty - completely empty.  The only thing that was in the burlap sack that was not there before was a fist-sized hole near the bottom.  There was also a hole in my heart big enough for a lot of fat bullheads to swim through, and a huge hole in my ego when mother showed up.

What happened? I really don't know, except I suppose either the bullheads chewed a hole to get out, or a snapping turtle might have chewed a hole to get in.  When they can get them, snapping turtles like the taste of bullheads too.

I had counted on something, and when the time came, what I had counted on was not there.  The cats were out of the bag!

In the wisdom literature of the Old Testament, Job was confident that he could count on his friends during his time of greatest need.  But when the time came, they were of no help.   Using a well know euphemism of his day, Job said in response:  "They were disappointed for they had trusted,  They came there and were confounded"  (Job 6:20).

We know that not all of our plans, not all of our expectations, not all of our hard work results in what we had expected.  Sometimes we do our best, and it is not enough.  Sometimes our friends, and even our family are of no help.

So, what should we do?  We should patch up the holes, and keep on fishing.  Not every cat gets out of the bag!