“Trying to hold two women is tearing me apart,” sang the Oak Ridge Boys.
I think they didn’t know the half of it.
Anyway, I have a bird dog. And, I have a wife.
First, let me aver this: Those who have a dog have an obligation to it. If it’s a hound dog, the owner better get it out to trail things. If it’s a herd dog, the owner better get it out to herd things. If we don’t get our dogs out to do what they were designed to do, we’re keeping them locked up in prison — no matter how cushy the amenities are.
What a travesty of justice to keep a dog locked up, one that has committed no crime, without due process and without the possibility of parole — or if occasionally paroled, those paroles come but sporadically with too much time between them.
Those who have a wife took an oath to love her and honor her and cherish her.
I think one of the unspoken corollaries is to give her a hand with things — especially if she’s still working full-time and, as in my case, her husband spends the bulk of his time frogging around in the woods and on the water and claims he’s working because he later writes about his experiences — all while bringing home a mere pittance compared to his wife’s income.
Anyway, my dog had mostly been lying around the house during the 16 days of the firearms deer season. Season ended, bird seasons (grouse and pheasant but check the regulations before heading out — especially if going after pheasants) resumed and, naturally, I was anxious to get my dog out hunting again.
I’d already gotten her out on a couple of post-deer-season excursions. Some doctor appointments and other obligations got in the way, though, so I hadn’t had her out for a couple of days. Then, the morning of the mouse arrived.
Actually, we had two mousy mornings. The first one came on a Saturday.
My wife let me know that we had a mouse in one of the traps we keep set. I disposed of the body and reset the trap and went on about my carefree business while my wife cleaned out the drawers the mouse had soiled and washed all the kitchen gadgets we keep in them. That’s the background to the second mousy morning.
That morning, I arose late. I’d slept in a bit because I was already prepping for one of those procedures nobody wants to call by name but I would — except I don’t want people thinking I’m being indelicate. That prep mainly consisted of not eating beans and popcorn and nuts and other staples of my diet. The grosser part was still to come. I had until mid-afternoon, though, to hunt.
But there was a note waiting for me when I got up. It went like this: A mouse was in the top drawer. I did not have time to deal w/it. I took the drawer out. Everything in it needs to be washed & the drawer needs to be washed.
Nowhere did the note ask me to do the dishes.
Still, I could read between the lines. The invisible ink portion read, I’ll be sorely disappointed if I don’t get some help around here today. Even a brand-new husband could have figured that out, and I’ve been married for 40 years. (Just an aside: My wife doesn’t like dishwashers, and we don’t have one. We still do dishes the old-fashioned way. The job was going to involve more than just tossing some things in a dishwasher.)
I couldn’t eat breakfast, of course. I had to be on a clear liquid diet until I started drinking the magic potion that afternoon.
So, I wanted to head for the woods. And my dog was watching me. She doesn’t understand all the ways of men and the dilemmas we face, but she can read the handwriting on the wall. She knows all the signs. I read the note and started drawing water to do the dishes and she figured I was about to fritter the day away again without getting her out hunting. She was heaving dejected sighs. And I wasn’t happy, either.
With my impending procedure, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get her out hunting the next day. The thought of going two more full days without a trip to the woods was unbearable.
Thomas Paine maybe wrote it the best. Times like that try men’s souls.
What to do?
Here’s how I handled it. I did the dishes. I washed out the drawer. I went hunting and made it home in time to drink that nasty concoction waiting for me. But it still wasn’t a satisfactory day.
My wife got home and didn’t mention that I’d done the dishes and washed the drawer. Perhaps she was annoyed that things were still in the dish drainer.
My dog wasn’t happy, either. I’d had to cut our time in the field short, and she had a lot of pep left. She needed more hunting time. I have two women in my life, and I’d disappointed them both.
But I’d done the best I could. Sometimes we strike out. Sometimes we hit a home run. Sometimes we only manage to lay down a bunt. If we’re smart, we’ll take the bunt and be happy.
