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Bill the Mink
“Fuck like a mink?”
Just ask me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this term thrown about
by people who have no clue what “fucking like a mink” is all
about. But I do. I was there. I have witnessed the pure unadulterated glory of
feline fury in the breeding arena. Even before I knew how to do the wild thing
or received the mandatory Birds and Bees Lecture, I had observed thousands of
matched pairs duke it out. It wasn’t fucking, but a prelude to high fashion.
We needed our
breeding females to give birth in May and early June. Because gestation took
eight to nine weeks, we had no choice but to begin breeding in the meanest and
sometimes coldest month of the year—March. Each day would bring a new flavor of
bad weather: sleet, snow, rain, and the relentless northeast winds that blew
off Lake Michigan. Thus, in the worst weather month of the year, the annual
rite of Breeding Season was held.
We had over 1,200
matches to facilitate. My father had methodically charted out who the breeding
pairs would be, making sure successful matings of the prior year were repeated
in order to optimize size, quantity and quality. My father, three brothers, and
I, along with the deft-handed and cheerful Marvin, plodded through the rain,
sleet, and snow in search of fertility. We were nature’s little matchmakers.
We’d lug our furtive lovers from cage to cage, doing our best to encourage
romance and making sure there were no pretenders.
The process was
simple. We’d invite a male mink into a carrying cage and walk him to the
designated female. And we’d keep careful watch. Once the deed was done, we’d
open the pen top and the triumphant stud would hop back into the carrying cage
and be returned home. There he’d relax, have a bite to eat, and then go back to
perform his sacred duty.
Most females were
cooperative. The seasoned ones had the mating ritual down pat. So for them, we
would introduce first-year-breeding rookies and allow them to fumble their way
to glory. To the uninitiated first-year females, we introduced our seasoned
veterans to make sure all went without mishap or surprise. It was all quite
routine. We would freeze our nuts off waiting for them to get their balls off.
But inevitably, there would be ten to twenty females who took no interest in
their suitors. These furred first-year virgins would try to rip our
good-natured breeding males from limb to limb. It was not a pretty sight. The
males would beg us to come and get them before their breeding day was over.
Many a gallant and determined suitor had to be withdrawn from the field of
battle bitten, humiliated, and nearly emasculated. Whoever said breeding was
easy never fucked a mink. So as the season wound down we were left with the
challenge of breeding these hard-to-get young vixens.
We have all seen the
individual or animal who rose far above a particular sport or vocation. The
Michael Jordan, Shamu, Itzak Perlman, Bill Gates, and Secretariats of the
world. Those phenoms who are not only good at something, but seemingly born to
do it. Designed by God for one sacred purpose—a purpose, whose importance is
known only by God, but whose glory is viewed with awe by each and every
spectator. Riesville had such a mink.
One mighty male whose lovemaking prowess was greater than all others—
the illustrious and spry Bill the Mink.
Bill’s challenge was
great, but so too was his ability. Given the task at hand, any thinking mink
would have run as far and as fast as his little legs could carry him. But not
our hero, not our Bill. This fool rushed in where other mink feared to tread.
We’d drop Bill into
these dens of certain destruction and time and again he’d exude the enthusiasm
of a mink half his age. Our trained mink-handler ears could almost hear Bill
say, “Love will find a way, fellas! Come back in thirty minutes.” He always
made good on his silent promise. We’d return with hope in our eyes, and sure
enough, Bill had delivered. Unlike most breeding males whose shelf life was
three to four seasons, Bill brought home the bacon for ten long seasons. I’m not sure what the equivalent of human to
mink years is, but I guess it meant Bill was fucking his way around our mink
yard well into his nineties. Even as he slowed down and no longer timed his
love leaps as he once did, he still hit a few out of the park. And when he
could pounce no more, we enshrined him in a corner pen where the sun shone and
a westerly breeze gently blew past him as he snoozed and reflected on the glory
days of his youth. We’d give him a bit more feed, freshen his water more often
than we needed to, and otherwise pamper and venerate this master of love. And
unlike his contemporaries, we let him die a natural death.
The good Lord finally took our Bill from us
just a few days after we celebrated his thirteenth birthday. Although he had
fathered over 856 children, most of them couldn’t make his wake, as they were
attending operas, black tie balls, and ballets as someone’s coat. But my
brothers, Marvin, and I were there. We gathered around his cage and sang the
old mink a rousing chorus of “For He’s Jolly Good Fellow.” We carried his cold,
lifeless body to a shady little spot near the carpenter shop and laid him to
rest. We were unusually sentimental for a bunch of minkers that day as we
gathered around our hero’s tiny grave, each of us sharing his own silent
thoughts with our departed friend. As a lasting memorial we placed a small
wooden marker over his grave that stated the simple truth about Bill: He
Fucked Like A Mink.
Copyright
2005 Charles P. Ries
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