Not too sharp when it comes to hunting knives

LAST WEEK, I WENT duck hunting with the same group of guys I have been hunting with for the last 41 years. Aside from the fact that the part in everyone’s hair line is considerably wider, we’re no different than we were when we started as teens.

What makes this truly spectacular is that, in the last few years, our sons and daughters have joined us too.

I was particularly pleased that my son Ryan showed this year and I commemorated the occasion by purchasing matching knives to gut ducks. Whenever anyone ever says that I’m not the sentimental type, remember this.

This knife was just the right size and design for cleaning ducks and since the lack of such a knife gave Ryan a reasonable excuse not to clean birds, I bought him one.

“Here,” I said to Ryan, after paying.

As I handed it to him, I patted him on the shoulder and said, “Son, this is the perfect bird knife. But, make no mistake; it

is more than just a knife. It’s a keepsake – the embodiment of a memory. It means something and, trust me, its importance will grow over the years. Whatever you do, don’t lose this knife.”

This morning, less than a week later, I have officially pronounced mine as lost.

Losing knives is something I do with startling regularity actually. In fact, on average, I have lost every knife that I have ever bought at least twice.

Typically, my knife-losing process goes something like this. Hunting season is approaching and I realize I have lost the knife I use to clean deer, bear, turkey, duck, grouse, woodcock, duck, hare, squirrel or goose.

I then buy one to replace it.

The knife is razor sharp out of the package but, being an outdoorsman, I work on it until it is easily as sharp as any hoe we have ever owned. Then, I continue sharpening it until I either run out of blade or get it sharp enough to a) draw copious amounts of blood b) shave the hair off my arm or c) do both.

Jenn then makes two observations. First, I shouldn’t be trusted around sharp objects and, second, I look like I have a bad case of mange on my forearms.

Coincidentally, a day or so after that, my knife suddenly goes missing and, for the duration of that period, we come in way under budget on Band-Aids.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out how they go missing though.

I mean, because I have lost so many since I met Jenn, I am very careful about where I put them at the end of the day – typically on the book shelf in the living room along with my wallet and car keys. She knows that too.

Nevertheless, the knife in question gets lost and, between you and me, I’m starting to get suspicious about Jenn. I bet she thinks I am irresponsible with those sharp blades that she maintains I should not possess.

The good news is usually sometime after all the hair on my arm has grown back, the knives mysteriously turn up where I’d least expect them – in a hunting pack or the pocket of a hunting vest or pair of pants that I have previously checked several times.

How I missed them the first few times I’ll never know. Jenn just shakes her head and snickers too.

You know, sometimes, I just think I’ve lost my edge.