Tooth & Claw: A Valentine’s Tale Of Love And Shame

“This is going to be the day! The best Valentine’s Day ever!” I yelled as I entered the room, breaking up the hunting video game marathon in progress. “Look alive, boys, I’ve finally done it: the perfect gift!”

The youngest boy shook his head and didn’t even glance from the screen as he blasted a duck. “You say that every holiday, Pops. Remember her birthday? A talking bass on the wall? Really, Dad?”

“I know, kid, I’ve had some questionable gift ideas in the past. But this time, I’ve nailed it.”

“Remember what happened two Christmases ago?” the oldest critic chimed in, lining up a grizzly bear in his sights. “Mom said she would really like something with cute little pigs and you got her an oil painting of a boar hunt with the hounds nipping at the hog’s heels?”

“Okay, I might have misunderstood the meaning of the word ‘cute,’ but you have to admit that was a cool painting.”

“Or how about when Mom said she wanted a nice keychain, and you got her the ‘Lucky Deer’s Foot’?”

“Okay, now that was a great gift, and I stand by that one! But this here is a thousand times better. Plus, I have a backup plan.” I grabbed the youngest kid to get his full attention. “Just to be on the safe side, you are going to present Mommy the gift.”

“Oh no, not me!” the boy backed away.

“It has to be you. You are still the cute, adorable one.  She would never frown on a gift from her baby boy. All you have to do is hand it to her with that innocent, heart-melting smile. Then, once she gushes over it, I’ll swoop in and tell her the gift is really from me! Trust me, it will work.”

What do you give the lady who got everything when she married you? Something original and from the heart, something that you went through a great deal of trouble to make with your own two hands, that’s what.

The plan went perfectly — almost. Right on cue, the kid met his mother at the door, gave her a huge hug and a kiss on the check, then presented the gift from behind his back with a flourish and a loud, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Valerie opened it with caution. This wasn’t the first Feb. 14 she had survived in a house full of outdoorsmen. When an outdoor lad hands a lady a box, she had better be prepared for anything from a live frog or a live weapon to a venison cutlet or trout fillet.

But Mom didn’t need to worry. For behold, there it was, The Ultimate Present, The Ultimate Valentine’s Day Gift. The necklace lay nestled in a perfect oval inside the jewelry box. Every feather, every antler, every tooth and talon and claw were spread out in gorgeous display, just as I had carefully arranged them.  Every trophy had a special meaning to me, and a fond story, and I was giving my Valentine a piece of that glory to share and wear forever around her neck. But the centerpiece, the piece de resistance, is what caught the eye: a sparkling silver Hopkins spoon, polished and with the hook removed, of course.  It was the lucky lure that had landed my first 10-pounder. It was more than a good luck charm: it was a piece of my heart. Several scarlet, glass fishing beads and neon fishing-line stoppers completed the masterpiece.

The effect was instantaneous: I think she stopped breathing for a minute and became almost paralyzed by delightful shock.

“I guarantee that you would never find anything like this at the mall,” I boasted to my speechless wife. “Perhaps you should give it a name, like ‘The Hope Diamond’ had? How about, ‘Tooth & Claw’?”

Have you ever just looked at the woman you love, and in one moment you knew that you had made her happy beyond her wildest dreams?  Valerie’s mouth gaped open, no doubt with amazement and sheer joy from the beauty and originality of this custom neck piece. A little flush of red lit her cheeks. The right side of her face began twitching, and I think I saw a bit of a teardrop in the corner of one eye. Then her face turned almost scarlet and she started trembling a little.

I could tell right away that she loved it. My stock as a husband was definitely rising.

“See that feather?” I pointed out. “That came from the Rio Grande turkey I shot down in Texas. He got all swollen and drummed up, strutting to within 15 yards of me. Beautiful hunt.”

My Valentine was so overwhelmed that her lovely mouth was still ajar. A bit of drool was starting to form on her bottom lip.

“See that tooth? My African lion. Fifty yards. See those claws? South Carolina alligator. Twelve-footer. Almost sank the boat. That antler? That’s from that first buck that I brought down with a bow at 40 steps.”

“Momma, what do you think?” asked the little one with a mischievous grin. “Do you like it?”

“Baby,” she finally managed to say, wiping that cute little bit of drool from her chin. “I have honestly never seen anything like this. It is, well, incredible. Did you do it all by yourself?” She glanced at me, her eyes suddenly dark and cloudy with some type of emotion. Probably love, mixed with a little bit of Valentine’s Day marital lust, no doubt.

“Well, Daddy gathered all the stuff, but I put it together and it was all my idea,” the kid responded, giving me a smirk over his shoulder.

“Well I love it! Give Mommy a hug.”

Have you ever sat and wondered exactly why you decided to have children? I started to correct the little traitor, but something stopped me. This was a moment of perfect happiness, so why ruin it? And then inspiration struck me — this would be the perfect way to complete our perfect Valentine’s Day.

“Honey, the church Valentine’s Ball is tomorrow night! Would you be our Valentine and wear it for us?”

I was beginning to worry about her. Valerie lay in bed, ill since morning. I went in there several times with all sorts of medicines and home remedies, but it was beginning to look like Tooth & Claw would not be making its social debut at the church Valentine’s Ball. That is when I suddenly remembered why I bothered to have children.

“Hey, kid. Can you go up there and work up a good cry? Make her feel guilty and make it believable. There’s a new video game in it for you.”

We were the last to arrive at the ball, but all the better. That meant that more people would be on hand to first set their gaze on the Ultimate Necklace and shake the hand of the Perfect Husband. Maybe afterward, I would give some pointers to all the lesser husbands on How To Do Valentine’s Right. The kids tagged along, saying something I didn’t quite get about “not wanting to miss this show.”

My Valentine was a picture of loveliness that enchanted evening. I’ll remember that elegant beauty forever, with her sleek high-heeled shoes, long, sequined red dress and the necklace draped gracefully around her neck and across her bosom. The Hopkins spoon reflected the light of the overhead disco ball. One of the feathers, perhaps from the rooster pheasant I bagged in Idaho, was sticking up on the back of her neck. I went to adjust it and she swatted my hand away. Strangely enough, she hadn’t wanted to hold my hand during the car ride over, either. The poor dear, she must have been nervous from all the attention.

We strolled into the ball and in moments all eyes were on us. Everyone stared at us as we waltzed onto the dance floor. People murmured to themselves as we stepped up to the buffet line. The men looked on in jealousy, no doubt, while the ladies admired the necklace in speechless awe.

The preacher’s wife was the first to approach and break the ice. “What a lovely necklace! Wherever did you get it?”

One by one, as one curious lady after another enquired about the necklace, she told them the story of my first buck, of my lion, the turkey and the pheasant, and she didn’t neglect to mention how her wonderful husband had all year to work on this.

All in all, I thought the evening went well. But then again, I am not good at judging these types of formal affairs. For some reason, the Mrs. climbed into the truck afterwards, slammed the door, threw the necklace into the glove compartment and didn’t speak a word on the way home. When I said something to her about not ruining Valentine’s, she gave me a fiery look that almost made me run off the road.

Ahh, the mysteries of women.

I might have experienced longer, more awkward weeks in my lifetime, but if so, I do not recall when. Luckily, I had long ago learned how to cook all of my own meals and wash my own clothes during these spells, so that kept me busy. It was a quiet week, what with the wife not talking to me and all, and about the time she did start muttering a word or two, it was church Sunday, and then for some strange reason she got angry all over again.

The family walked into church Sunday morning like we always do, wearing our Sunday finest, with me already looking at my watch. I noticed that Valerie had forgotten to put her necklace on, but since she was in such a bad mood, I decided not to mention it.

We sat in our usual pew, and I got to looking around. People-watching, I call it. Alright, who came to church today, and who went fishing? Man, why couldn’t I go fishing? Then I noticed something bizarre.

Almost every woman in the building was wearing some form of wildlife clothing or accessory.

“Honey, do you see what I see?” the wife asked.

I nodded in disbelief. Row by row, pew by pew, were ladies dressed in their finest outdoor fashion. Mrs. Johnson had quail feathers on her earrings. Mrs.Talbert, who sat on one side of us, showed off her alligator skin bracelet that Mr. Talbert made himself over at the hunting club. She had insisted that he put a rush order on it to have it ready in time for church today. Mrs. Buxton, who sat on the other side of us, displayed the herringbone necklace made out of – you guessed it – real fish bones.

“Momma, what is that God-awful smell?” the youngest kid blurted out, way too loudly. His Mother popped his leg and silenced him.

The pastor’s wife stooped over our pew to welcome us, as always. She wore some type of bone necklace, with a centerpiece that appeared to be a piece of deer scat encased in amber. Deer scat? Or was that a mountain goat dropping?

The head deacon’s wife was wearing an outlandish camouflage dress, and even snooty, judgmental Mrs. Bunco, who says that excessive jewelry and tattoos are a sign of the devil, had on an ancient coon-skin hat and some type of fur coat. I think the hat had caught the mange from the coat, because they were both missing some hair in several places.

“Honey am I crazy, or is Mrs. Elliott wearing a hat with a squirrel tail hanging off the back?” my wife whispered.

For some reason, that day’s sermon was all about not coveting things that belonged to thy neighbor, and when the Reverend got to that portion of the sermon all the menfolk started throwing me hateful looks right there in the church. I mentioned it to my wife.

“Don’t worry about it, my love,” Valerie said, and gave me a wink and a big peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the best Valentine’s ever.” She turned to one of the boys. “Be a dear and go out to the truck and fetch Mommy’s necklace, would you?”

Ahh, the mysteries of women.