“So I shot it and I was so proud I took a thousand pictures.” She continued.
I agreed. “That’s totally fine. Good shot. Dead fox. Well done.” She deserved lots of pictures.
The Foxinator
“But I’ve got to dispose this dead fox…” She began.
“Whoa there now. You don’t have a dead fox. You’ve got an asset!” Who lets a dead fox go to waste?
(Maybe I should have been born during the great depression?)
“What? You think I’m gonna’ make a coat? Maybe mittens? A hat? ” She had legitimate questions.
Actually I was drawing a blank. I, like most Americans, do not know how to transition from dead arrogant chicken eating furred cretin, to expensive fur coat that’ll piss off PETA. I assumed it was possible. If a dead tree is God’s firewood supply then surely a dead fox is… something…
Given our skill sets, how could this be an asset?
“Nail it to a fencepost as a warning to other foxes?” I suggested.
“It’s a woodland creature, not a pirate.” She countered.
Good point.
How does one make a jacket? Um… like you ‘stretch’. Stretch what? The err… ‘pelt’. Yeah that’s it you stretch the pelt and then you um…’tan’? Yeah, you ‘tan’ it. My mental gears were slowly starting to turn.
“Ohhh I’ve got it!” She exploded in excitement.
I had taken too long.
“I’m gonna’ ‘skin’ it!” She shouted.
Oh yeah. ‘Skin’. That’s the word. You ‘skin’ the carcass to get a ‘pelt’ to ‘stretch’ and ‘tan’. Damn pioneer skills are such a pain in the ass.
“I’m going to skin the pelt off.” I could hear her smile through the phone. “…and throw the carcass to the chickens!”
Ohhh! Violent retribution followed by vindictive ironic symbolic torture. It was the most beautiful thought ever.
“Chickens will eat anything.” She was saying. “They’ll eat the fox and grow strong!”
Yes! I liked this plan.
“This will train them to be super killer fox eating monster chickens!”
There are times when I am in the presence of greatness. When a bartender makes a mixed drink with sixteen ingredients. When a redneck with a welder builds a truck more powerful than a smallish European nation. When a heavy metal band strikes a power chord that echoes to Ragnarök.
Our friend, having defeating a sworn enemy in battle, was proposing the unthinkable. She was the Oppenheimer of chicken owners.
Greatness! You can’t define it, but you know it when you see it.
“That’s beautiful!” I chuckled. “Can you do one thing now? Just for the heck of it can I hear a mad scientist laugh?”
“My chickens will rule the world! Mwah ha ha ha ha!” She hammed it up.
I paused.
“What do you think?” She asked?
“I think I need to put this on my blog.” I smiled.
“Of course you do.” She wasn’t surprised by this. “Everything cool on your blog comes from me.”
She had a point. Without her influence I sure as hell wouldn’t have conceived of My Little Pony conventions. Nor would I have encountered a cat which was clearly one of the horsemen of the apocalypse. (Two of my more popular stories.)
“I don’t use names on my blog.” I began.
“‘Cause you’re paranoid.” She interrupted.
“So I shall call you…” I paused. Then it hit me. The perfect name. “The FOXINATOR.”
“OK.” She chuckled.
“Skin the fox carefully.” My brain was still six steps behind the conversation. “I had a guy tan a deer hide a few years ago. He did a great job. I’ll text you his number. You should make a hat or something fun.”
“Awesome.” She enthused.
Awesome indeed.