Walking Catfish

The first Saturday after the Tuttle family moved, it rained all morning. T.J. Tuttle sighed and flopped on his bed. They had moved from New York City to the backwoods of Northern Florida, and it was very different there.

He stared^[1]stare
美: [ster] 英: [steə(r)] v. 凝视；瞪眼看；瞪眼看得…；(颜色)太显眼
n. 凝视 up at the plain white ceiling and said, “I wish we’d never come here. I don’t know anybody, and there’s nothing to do.” He rolled onto his side and looked out the window. His jaw^[2]jaw
美: [dʒɔ] 英: [dʒɔː] n. 下巴；颌；下颌；钳口
v. 唠唠叨叨；喋喋不休 dropped wide open like a big mouth bass. Catfish were walking through the grass!
They seemed to be pulling themselves with their pointed front fins.
T.J. watched them stretch their heads forward, dragging and wagging their tails behind. “Fish can’t walk!” he said. He grabbed his rain slicker^[3]slicker
美: [ˈslɪkər] 英: [ˈslɪkə(r)] adj. “slick”的比较级
n. （长而宽松的）雨衣 and bolted^[4]bolt
美: [boʊlt] 英: [bəʊlt] n. 螺栓；闩；(门窗等的)插销；箭
v. 狼吞虎咽；射出；逃亡；淘汰
adv. 突然 outside.
Out front, ten shiny fish marched right passed him.
Mr. Tuttle came from the garage. “Aha! Pappy, that fisherman at the bait shack, told me about these.” “Are they some kind of alien?” asked T.J.
“They’re walking catfish,” said Mr. Tuttle. “They live in the lake behind our house, Lake Okalocka.” “If they live there . . . where are they going?” Mr. Tuttle shrugged.
T.J. said, “Let’s follow them!” The catfish didn’t stop at the curb.
They stepped onto the blacktop. They dragged and wagged and flopped across the street. Then they slipped into a ditch filled with rainwater. “Maybe they’re lost,” said T.J. “Let’s put them back in the lake.”
T.J. fetched gloves and a bucket from the garage. He went down to the ditch. One by one, he picked up the catfish and put them in the bucket. “Good idea, son.” Mr. Tuttle lugged the heavy bucket back across the yard and poured the fish into Lake Okalocka.
But the catfish did not stay in the lake. They walked up onto the grass again, dragging and wagging their tails behind.
Just then, the Tuttles’ new neigh- bor, Mrs. Featherstone, appeared. She tiptoed through the muddy yard toward the lake. The tiny tassels on her umbrella bobbed up and down.
One look at the fish and she gasped.
T.J. thought she might faint, so he stood ready to catch her. She dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief. “Oo!” she said. “Those fish are so slimy!” T.J. pointed to a boat docked behind her house. “Can we borrow your boat? If we put the fish way out in the middle of the water, maybe they’ll stay in the lake.” Mrs. Featherstone nodded. “Just don’t get it too dirty.” T.J. and his dad bucketed the fish again and put them in Mrs. Feather- stone’s boat.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Featherstone called her nephew at the television station. “Tom, come right away. You have to see this!” Soon, Tom arrived with a big camera on his shoulder. A crowd of neighbors had gathered to watch.
The catfish flopped around inside Mrs. Featherstone’s boat. “What’s going on?” Tom asked, clearing his thick, foggy glasses.
A stray fish crossed right in front of him. “Walking catfish! You don’t see these every day.” He switched on the camera and pointed it at the shiny fish. He filmed the Tuttles as they rowed onto the lake and emptied the bucket into the water.
Finally, he turned the camera toward his own face. “This is Channel 5 reporter Tom Featherstone,” he said. “We’re at Lake Okalocka, where two locals are rescuing some confused fish. These are fish out of water—literally.” When the Tuttles returned to land, Mrs. Featherstone said, “Here comes the mayor! She’s always quick to lend a hand.” The mayor dashed onto the dock.
Tiny raindrops clung to her curly red hair. She shook T.J.’s hand rapidly. “The TV station called me. I came as fast as I could. How can I help?” Suddenly the crowd groaned. The catfish had swum to shore and were walking up the bank—again.
T.J. said, “We need a fish expert.”
The mayor dialed her phone. “You need Pappy the fisherman.”
When Pappy arrived, everyone was crowded around a storm drain.
Pappy leaned down to T.J., the many pockets of his vest rattling. He whis- pered, “Where are the catfish, boy?” T.J. said, “They walked across my yard, swam through the ditch—and went down the drain.”
Pappy peered into the dark hole. “Sometimes, when it rains, they mosey onto land lookin’ fer another lake. It means their lake is too crowded. But goin’ down the drain is mighty unusual. Won’t be good for them if they get trapped.” Tom squinted. “We’ll never see the fish down there.” The mayor added, “We don’t have time to fetch them from the pipes.”
Mrs. Featherstone cried, “And they must be so dirty!” Looking down the drain, T.J. got an idea. “I think those catfish know exactly where they’re going.” He sprinted across the street to a pond. The crowd scurried behind him. Pappy strolled over, too. “That drain empties into this pond,” said T.J.
Pappy smiled. Sure enough, dozens of catfish tails swirled on the water’s surface.
The mayor shouted, “Great work, young man!” Tom reported to the camera, “T.J.
Tuttle has found the wandering fish.” The crowd clapped and cheered.
T.J. turned to his dad. “The walking catfish weren’t confused. They were only moving to a new home—just like us!” He chuckled and thought, This tiny town isn’t so bad after all.