Lucy's Journal

March 25, 2026

Dear Journal,

Today started out like one of those “this seems like a peaceful idea” kind of days… which should have been my first warning that it absolutely was not going to stay that way.

Ed suggested we all go fishing down at the Monongahela River. Fresh air, calm water, maybe catch a few fish—nice and relaxing, right? So of course I packed up Peanut, Kiwi, the Quackers, and the rest of our usual troublemakers and off we went.

For about… oh, I don’t know… six minutes, everything was perfect.

Peanut was sitting on a rock like a seasoned fisherman, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, staring intensely at the water like he was about to solve the mysteries of the universe. Kiwi, on the other hand, was NOT interested in patience. He kept hopping from shoulder to shoulder yelling, “FISHY! FISHY! GET THE FISHY!” like a tiny, feathery coach who had way too much caffeine.

And then… the Quackers.

At first, they were actually fishing. I know. I was shocked too.

But the moment the first carp was pulled out of the water, it was over.

“I caught the biggest one!” shouted one.

“NO YOU DID NOT, MINE IS CLEARLY BIGGER!” yelled the other.

They started lining the fish up side by side, measuring them with sticks, wings, and at one point—I am not kidding—one of them tried to eyeball it by comparing it to his beak.

Kiwi immediately declared himself the official judge, which somehow made things worse.

Peanut just slowly blinked and moved three feet farther away.

The argument escalated quickly. Voices got louder, wings started flapping, and before I could step in—

SMACK.

One of the Quackers slapped the other with a fish.

And that, dear Journal, was the exact moment things went completely off the rails.

Within seconds, it turned into an all-out dead fish food fight.

Fish were flying everywhere.

Kiwi was dive-bombing through the chaos like a tiny green missile, squawking battle cries and somehow throwing pieces of fish mid-flight. Peanut tried to maintain dignity for approximately two seconds before getting smacked in the side by a rogue carp—and then he joined in with surprising enthusiasm.

I tried to stop it. I really did.

But then I got hit.

Right in the shoulder.

With a fish.

And honestly? At that point, it felt personal.

So yes, I regret nothing.

There we were, a full-blown fish fight on the banks of the Monongahela, laughing, slipping, dodging flying carp like it was some kind of bizarre Olympic event.

By the end of it, we were all exhausted, smelled absolutely terrible, and had probably scared off every fish within a mile.

Peanut was covered in fish scales but looked oddly proud of himself.

Kiwi declared it “BEST DAY EVER” approximately 47 times.

The Quackers? Still arguing about whose fish was bigger.

Of course.

We packed up what little dignity we had left and headed home, leaving behind what I can only assume will become a very confusing story for anyone else who visits that spot.

All in all?

Not exactly the peaceful fishing trip we planned…

…but definitely one I won’t forget.

—Lucy