Having a pet that demanded artisanal water was one thing, but Leo soon discovered that Goldie's obsession with purity was an active, and deeply problematic, force.
A few days later, Leo was faced with a mundane chore that had been looming over him: cleaning the bathtub.
It wasn't filthy, but a faint ring of soap scum was beginning to form. It was a task that required gloves, a sponge, and a healthy dose of chemical cleaner.
Then, a dangerous thought occurred to him.
An idea born of laziness and a desperate desire to find some practical application for the escalating chaos in his life.
He looked at Goldie, who was swimming serenely in his bowl of imported spring water, occasionally nudging a microscopic dust mote away with a flick of his tail.
"Hey, Goldie," Leo said, walking over to the desk. "You like things clean, right? I've got a job for you."
He carefully transferred Goldie into a smaller, portable travel bowl and carried him into the bathroom.
The bathroom gleamed under the fluorescent lights. To a normal person, it was clean. To Goldie, it was probably a cesspool of horrifying, unseen spiritual grime.
Leo filled the tub with warm water from the tap.
He placed Goldie's bowl on the edge of the tub. "Okay, Mr. Clean. Do your thing. Just… don't overdo it."
Goldie surveyed the tub full of plebeian tap water with a look of profound disdain. A tiny, condescending bubble escaped his lips.
Then, he began his work.
A soft, azure light began to emanate from the tiny fish. The light seeped out of his bowl and into the tub water.
The water began to shimmer.
The faint, cloudy impurities in the tap water vanished.
The subtle ring of soap scum dissolved, not scrubbed away, but simply ceasing to exist.
The chrome faucet, which had a few hard water spots, began to gleam with an unnatural, mirror-like sheen.
The very air in the bathroom started to feel different. Thinner. Purer. Devoid of any scent. The faint, pleasant smell of Leo's soap, the hint of shampoo, even the sterile scent of the toilet bowl cleaner—all of it was gone, purified into nothingness.
The bathroom no longer felt like a bathroom. It felt like a sterile chamber. A surgically clean void.
Leo watched, a growing sense of unease creeping up his spine. "Okay, Goldie, I think that's good. That's… that's clean enough."
But Goldie was in the zone. This was his art. His purpose. The pursuit of absolute, uncompromising purity. The light from his body intensified, and the water in the tub took on an almost crystalline quality, sparkling with an inner luminescence.
Is he… squeaking? Like a rubber toy? Milo's inner voice mused. The cat had padded into the bathroom, drawn by the strange silence. He peered into the tub, his whiskers twitching. This 'pure' water tastes like nothing. Utterly bland. My spiritual palate is offended.
Max, the ever-helpful husky, bounded in after him. He saw the gleaming, pristine tub. Then he looked down at his own paws, which were slightly muddy from a recent trip to the backyard.
"Woof! Dirty!" he seemed to decide. "Max fix! Purify!"
He then proceeded to splash his muddy paw into the hyper-purified water of the bathtub, apparently thinking he could clean the mud with… more mud. The pristine water instantly turned a murky brown in one corner.
Goldie, from his bowl, emitted a pulse of furious, blue light. The mud instantly disintegrated.
Max, confused by the disappearing mud, tried again, creating a cycle of muddying and instantaneous purification that was giving Leo a throbbing headache.
"Max, out!" Leo commanded, shooing the bewildered husky from the room.
He finally turned off the tap and looked at his bath. The water was now so clear it seemed to bend the light around it. It looked less like water and more like liquid diamond.
"Well," Leo sighed. "Here goes nothing."
He stepped into the tub.
The water felt… wrong. It was unnaturally soft, impossibly smooth, like bathing in liquid silk. It didn't feel wet in the traditional sense.
He lathered up with soap, but the suds seemed to vanish the moment they touched the water, purified into nonexistence.
When he got out and dried off, he discovered the true horror of Goldie's handiwork.
His skin was clean.
Too clean.
It was stripped of every natural oil, every microscopic particle. It felt like polished porcelain.
And it squeaked.
Every time he moved, his arm brushing against his side, his legs rubbing together, there was a faint, high-pitched squeak, like two balloons being rubbed together.
He stared at his reflection in the unnervingly clean mirror. My skin feels like a freshly bleached porcelain doll, he thought in horror. This isn't 'clean,' this is 'spiritually exfoliated.' How do I explain this to anyone without them thinking I've joined a very strange, very squeaky cult?
He spent the next twenty minutes slathering himself in copious amounts of moisturizer, trying to silence the symphony of squeaks that accompanied his every movement.
He walked back into the living room, feeling like a well-oiled mannequin.
Milo looked up at him, tilted his head, and let out a soft, questioning chirp.
Max wagged his tail, then sneezed as a cloud of moisturizer-scented air hit his nose.
Goldie, back in his bowl on the desk, swam a single, triumphant, and utterly perfect circle.
Leo stared at his squeaky clean reflection in the TV screen, then at the chaotic scene of his other pets. This wasn't just pet ownership; it was full-time supernatural crisis management.
And he was desperately in need of a better system.