Me?  I’m a farmer?  Catfish.  Where did you think farm raised catfish comes from?   It ain’t as easy as you think, though there are times, I have to admit, when it’s downright peaceful, sittin’ around a campfire listen to the fish softly bubble.  Twice a year we drive ‘em in.  We bring ‘em in in the spring when we brand the fries.  And then in the fall, when we fry the adults.  Trust me.  Ya gots to use a little brand or you’ll fry the fries.  And branding them’s the only protection we got against catfish rustlers.  I call my spread the Swimming W Ranch.  If you could see the brand, the W looks like it has little fins.  Or at least, it’s supposed to.  But then, it is the alphabet.  I don’t have a lot to work with.  The “W” stands for water.  We use jet skis when we round ‘em up.  Tried a horse once, but that was all but useless.  A fella once suggested a seahorse, but that’s just plain silly.  Seahorses live in saltwater.  Catfish live in fresh.  Don’t think you’re not gonna be gettin’ wet, though.  Some of them small fry get off  in the shoals and the only way you’re gonna get ‘em back to the herd is to jump right in there.  But that’s what I do.  Farm catfish.  Can’t say as I rightly hate it.  But there ain’t a whole lot to love, either, not if you don’t like bein’ wet all the time.