Like eager hound dogs tethered to the hand of their owner, so too are these pants, which when released from the confines of my closet, tromp through fields and forests alike, searching, as if determined children chasing an ice cream truck, for that which draws their curiosity.

Each pair could tell a story. As a palm reader might, she could decipher every mud stain, errant paint splatter, fish smear, or piece of tattered fabric, most likely from a beaver swamp briar patch, yard chores, or simply from a life well lived.

Like a proper spouse, a loyal pair of pants will never leave you, nor forsake you. I have some pairs older than my children, but because they are now threadbare, like all good things, they must relinquish their hanger upon which they’ve lived all these years. However, some things are just too painful to let loose of.

Like a treasured hunting dog, they deserve a proper burial, but instead of being placed in a landfill, most will forever live amongst old love letters, trophies, and school pictures somewhere at the bottom of my chest of drawers. The only difference is, it’s ‘bout near impossible to replace a good hunting pair of pants.