My Feet Were Fish Food

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I sat with my bare feet dangling into a tank training a few hundred recently imported Chinese flesh eating fish to not only welcome my feet but to think the crust buildup from walking the streets of Mumbai is down right delicious. The “Dr. Fish Foot Treatment” at The Bambooo House (three o’s) is temporarily off the menu after their tank sprang a leak killing all the pedicure providing fish. The new recruits aren’t currently up to the task yet and are being trained (and starved) by employee volunteers until they are no longer skittish around wiggling toes and are eager for human consumption. “You can try them out if you please. Complimentary, of course.” Said the owner mistaking my inquiries for interest in the procedure. “Rather, they can try me out?” I reply. “Yes, yes. You can help train them. They may just run away. But maybe they won’t.” “It’s the maybe they won’t I worry about?” “No charge, of course. Sir, no charge” “No, I mean if they don’t run away, but are untrained, will they bite too hard? Will I pull my foot out and they not know to let go? “They have very little teeth, sir. Nothing to worry about.” I’ve never had a pedicured or a foot massage before and have no frame of reference on this one so I cannot say with authority that fish do a better job removing dead skin from a man’s hairy foot that their loofah wielding human counterpart. But, I can say this. They are much less judgemental. I was much less hesitant to stick my foot in the face of a fish than a fellow human.