My Caring Wife

By Dennis Clay Smith

Copyright 2002

My wife, God love her, is really concerned about my well-being and safety.

Why just this morning as she was leaving for work she said, "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to wash a dish or two, or do a load of laundry once in a while."  And while I write this, the washer is filling with water, I just did the dishes and they're drying off in the drainer (is that what you call that plastic duma-fligger? - I always thought it was strainer for freshly washed and cleaned squirrels).

And man was I surprised, she was right, I don't feel any pain yet.  This housework ain't as bad as those women claim it is! Why I may even get out the Hoover (actually an Oreck I bought especially for her on her birthday) and go to work on that riverbottom dirt and beggerlice I tracked in at 2am this morning from the season-ending coon hunt.

You know, come to think about it, it hurts me a lot more coonhunting than doing housework. So far this year I've gotten: dogbit  by my own dog. It was an accident (I think); he didn't know my hand grabbing around his mouth wasn't part of the dead coon he had pinned down; I broke some ice crossing a slough--with my face when my boot hung on a root and pitched me forward into a perfect belly-flop.  My shins look like those 3-week old potatoes under your sink--bruised and mushy from being attacked by those pesky, shin-high, logs that seem to pop up while you're rushing to a treed dog and watching the tree-tops for eyes. And man, if you thought that dull razor, the one your wife used to shave her legs with does a job on your face, you should see what these riverbottom saw-briars can do! My face gets to looking like my dogs' ears-- bloody and tattered.  You'd think I'd been down on the ground helping them fight those coons.

I've been clothes-lined by grapevines while rushing to get to a young dog that's hammering on a treed coon. And man, some of the thickets I find myself in where I hunt.  They wear you down.  No wonder I've got all these woods to myself. Who in their right mind would hunt these places?  I did make a few buddy-hunts up here with a buddy of mine--I think he's still my buddy. And to even lure Raymond up here, I had to feed him plenty.  Now even food doesn't work.  He says those riverbottom thickets give him 'Nam flashbacks.  (I never let him carry the gun.)

And does all that necessary equipment grow sore muscles on a short fat boy the next morning? I told my wife, "I'll probably be as thin as Steve Erkle by the end of coon season".  She said, "you still looked like Buddy Hacket after last coon season".

I usually put my gear on at home to save the wear and tear on my dogs' toenails. They'll flat wear out a dogbox door while waiting for me to untangle the suspenders on my hunting light belt--they want to go hunting.

But, back to the equipment thing. After I get to the woods, I feel like a Kurd, slugging across the barrens of Iraq with all my worldly possessions hanging off me. (I couldn't outrun the Game Warden if he was built like John Candy). Let's see: There's the light, battery and belt, a dog leash, a gun on a sling, plenty of shells in my back pocket, my digital camera (to take pictures of all those den-trees my dogs seem to tree on), my GPS (wading thickets is bad enough without wading them in a continuous circle), a coon squaller, (which, by the way, my overly excited young cur managed to jump up and snatch from my mouth the first time he heard me blow it), a Tri-tronics transmitter on another sling, Frogleg waders, (which, while lightweight, are definitely not my wife's fuzzy, house shoes), and lastly, about 6 sheets of Bounty, shoved down in my other back pocket, close to where they'll eventually be used.  I guess that's it--whew!  Oh, and on the way out, if I'm "lucky" that night, I've got a coon or two hanging on ropes and cutting into my shoulders while I stagger for the truck. 

Well, it's time to wind this up.  My Maytag has buzzed and it's time to transfer stuff to the Kenmore and reload the washer.

I hope I remembered to take that wad of paper towels out of my back pocket.  I don't want to do that again. (I already got caught--Mrs. Smith found that $115. Dog wormer receipt in my pants the other day.)

Maybe tonight, I'll suggest to my wife, "Honey, it wouldn't hurt you to take those dogs to the woods while I straighten up this house". 

Nah, I couldn't do that to her.