Heavens to Betsy
She was of old Monte Carlo stock, this much was obvious. I didn’t know her age, didn’t ask and didn’t care. She was the one for me and my heart skipped a beat the first time I held her close.
She had traveled around Alaska and had some “experience”, something that I sadly lacked. I was just a pup then, still wet behind the ears and unsure of myself. She, on the other hand was solid and steady, confident, with nerves of steel, always the straight shooter.
Betsy was the little pet name I gave her. Other names and old flames and experiences of the past now meant nothing. We were an inseparable pair. Nothing could ever come between us, or so I thought.
We fished together, hunted together and hiked in the mountains. When I went a field she was right there with me, except once when I forgot and left her back at Fish Lake hunters camp. I felt a little naked when I arrived at Flat Top, in the middle of grizzly country without her by my side. I know she was deeply wounded by my thoughtlessness, but true to her character she never mentioned it.
Years have gone by and taken their toll on the both of us. Tragedy struck in the summer of 1996. Betsy lost her sight. But I loved her even more for it. After Betsy lost her sight I had to carry her on our trips. Sometimes I would carry her on my back and at times I would cradle her in my arms like a baby as I hiked up and down the Seven Hills of Death on the way to Fish Lake. Occasionally I would even throw her over my shoulder and carry her like a sack of potatoes. But even after losing her sight, Betsy was always there for me to lean on.
There was a dark side to Betsy, something even I could not have imagined when I first fell for her. Yes, the little hints were there from the beginning, the possibility of a violent and bloody past, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Yet she was so powerful and explosive, I could not help but suspect what I later discovered to be reality. My Betsy was a cold-blooded killer.
Our first few years together were uneventful years of bliss, but in the fall of 1992 I witnessed firsthand what I suspected all along. Betsy killed a big fuzzy. I remember it like it was yesterday. I never would have believed it of her, but the gruesome spectacle unfolded before my very eyes. I think she did it to protect me, more than anything, as she knew that I generally got a case of the shakes when I encountered big fuzzies.
I thought what occurred there might be a one-time thing, an isolated incident that Betsy and I might just sweep under the caribou moss but it happened again and again. Killing seemed to be second nature to her.
I knew I had to lock Betsy up. She was an accident waiting to happen, too powerful for her own good. She was like a rabid wolf waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting, a lethal weapon gone rogue.
Betsy’s in prison now for life, locked away with a dozen other hoodlums of low caliber. I visit her daily and gaze longingly through the glass, remembering the good times we had together and wishing I could hold her close once more.
...Thanks Tommy, you always surprise us with your wit and wisdom..