January 21, 2010
by Chris Feeney
If last weekís column cost me my culinary rights at my house, this edition may have me looking for a new roof to reside under. It is a sad day when a man has to live his outdoor life vicariously through his wife. But let me attempt to excuse the following words by noting that it is a blessing to have a spouse that loves hunting and fishing as much if not more than I do. I guess I should simplify that even further, and just say up front it is an amazing blessing for me to have my spouse, period. Hope that makes up for what is to follow.
However, one of the loves we do not share is trapping. It is a sport I simply have no taste for. Well thatís is not my sense that the pursuit most offends. Let me put it simply, trapping stinks.
Iím beginning to wonder if my wife isnít abusing that skunk cover sent? I mean it is a perfect excuse. You could dab a little stink behind each ear after going on an all-day shopping spree, and no one would suspect you would have ever been doing anything else but trapping. Besides knee-high Muck boots arenít made for mall walking.
You know how hunters and fishermen often are sponsored by gear providers, getting free bows, lures or other related materials in exchange for promoting such products to other prospective buyers. Iíd suggest one of the local flower shops put their logo on my trapperís headgear, since she definitely has increased candle sales at our home.
Is there such thing as sensory harassment? If so we may be faced with a workplace lawsuit, since Trapper K often runs her traps in the morning before coming to the office. At least I got a little backup against the claim that I was overly sensitive to trapping odors, even though it cost me some paid sick days for our employees.
Oh well, I guess it is a small price to pay to witness your significant other finding a passion that fills her days with joy and has turned into quality time with her father who seems to share the passion for the sport (and who I believe may have lost his sense of smell during years as a hog farmer).
Still, I have to admit, I believe I now know how many of you wives feel when you come home to one of your husbandís outdoor exploits gone awry.
Trapping has recently expanded to the preparation of skins and hides. I HAD no problem with that. Initially I felt like this would save me paying for having samples of her skins tanned for display, and might ultimately lead to her taking up taxidermy.
Well that was until I came home from work. It started as an innocent trip to the main floor bathroom of our home to drop off a piece of laundry. I stopped at the bathroom sink, noting in the mirror that it was well past time for a haircut. I nearly went through the ceiling when I caught a glimpse of hair on the shower behind me. No one was supposed to be home. The Psycho theme was playing in my head as I sheepishly slid the shower curtain open with my right hand and the rolling pin in my left.
Okay it wasnít necessarily relief when my investigation revealed four raccoon hides hanging from the shower curtain rod, dripping a toxic-looking green residue into the bathtub as they cured in the main bathroom of my home. Not a horror movie, but not living happily ever after either.
My manhood takes enough of a beating courtesy of the disparity of trophy mounts in our home courtesy of her compared to me, so I simply shrugged it off. No way was I going to be the one complaining about hunting stuff being introduced to my home. Granted this is far removed from wearing your muddy hunting boots into the house, yet I refuse to complain.
The only reason I bring it up now is a desperate desire to continue my New Yearís resolution of posting a weekly column which would be difficult for my lazy, non-outdoor-going behind if it werenít for my wonderful wifeís adventures. Honey if youíre looking for the rolling to pin to whack me over the head with, I think I left it in the shower with the misidentified coon-pelt intruder.
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