I’ve suffered a few catfish noodlin’ incidents myself.
You know catfish have teeth. And they bark. Which is a large source of amusement for the grandwreks. Oldest grand-wrek sez that’s wrong to call them catfish when, clearly they are DOG-fish. I told her to write a letter to the Game and Fish commission and complain.
Ok. The caper of the failed Catfish farm---->
Several years ago when Big Wrek was thinking about early retirement he decided he needed a side gig to finance his need to spend everyday fishing or hunting and building a Joint.
He visited a catfish farm. Since he likes fishing he thought this would be perfect. I was dubious. It seemed like a very hands on operation. Requiring employees or, god forbid, me to work it while he was away funnin’ it up. Nope. I put my foot down.
He comes to me on a Saturday and said get dressed, “I’m taking you somewhere” Ooh! I inquired as the formality of the event. Should I dress up? He sez, “Woman, just put your shoes on!”
We drive out of the county. Into a little town. He’s not sure of the road to take. I look up and see a large sign"----->This way to Ginormous Catfish farm"…I point it out to him.
Dang & I thought I was going somewhere fun.
We get there. We are walked all over the very, very fishy smelling place. I mentioned the odor. Big Wrek sez, “Hush”. No I won’t. I’m not living in a fish cannery. I have to smell fish enough. I draw the line here. The owner says, “Oh, no. Thats not a normal odor. We’ve had a die off”. Wha??!? :eek: That seems like a down-vote.
Big Wrek gets all the specs and countless phamplets. Instructions as to how to rig our nice natural pond into a fish pen. Not liking this. At. All.
I made him call the county agent. A game warden. A priest and a lady down the road. Someone please talk him outta this. Please.
He’s adamant about it. He spends big $$$$ getting the pump equipment and digs another well. He rents heavy equipment and enlarges the pond. He works on this for 6mos. or so. The guy from the ginormous catfish farm comes out. They walk out to the pond. Lots of pointing. Head shaking. Chin clutching. I deem from my vantage point it’s not looking good.
Oh, wait. Why would that guy come here? He has his own fish farm. They’re not friends. I don’t get it.
Mr.Wrekker comes in and asks where all those phamplets went to. I dig them out. He shows me pictures of these giant vats. Big, round and blue. Catfish pools. He pokes the pamphlets hard and sez, “I need to buy 2 of them!”
I scream (alittle), where in hell do you get those? And how much do they cost? Where is the water coming from?
He sez, “Calm down, woman, My good friend Fred says he’ll sell them to me.” & “I may need to dig another well.”
(My poor ground water source)
No. No. No. My brain is screeching.
He goes on to tell me how he, through his good friend Fred can sell the pools to other unsusp…erm…wannabe catfish farmers and get a return on his 2 pools.
Oh, my freakin’ god. It’s a pyramid scheme. May as well be Tupperware for all the money he’s gonna make.
He won’t get to hunt and fish. He’ll be hunting unsuspect…erm wannabe catfish farmers on his days off from working his own pools.
I see a big sign going up on the end of my road “Ginormous Catfish farm, this way---->”
And a dead fish odor lingering in the air. Because we had a die off.
Nope. I put the brakes on this enterprise in about 12 minutes. He looked sad for about an hour.
We don’t mention farm-raised catfish in this house. Wild caught is so so much better.
He worked to he aged out and then retired. Like normal people do.
Beck-1
Catfish farm-0