A damper on my marriage

I have a confession to make: I have beaver feet. That's right, beaver feet. I also have something worse: Beaver sneakers. And beavers socks. Beaver socks at least can be washed. But beaver sneakers, well, I don't think there's a cure for beaver sneakers.

I got all this by hanging around beaver ponds and swamps the better part of this spring, not so much because I have some sort of odd love affair with beavers, but because their colonies attract a denizen of birds and other critters.

I wear sneakers to these places because

A) Sneakers are cheap, compared to hiking boots.

B) They don't give you blisters when they're wet.

Problem with sneakers is they absorb the many and varied smells of the beaver swamp, which include, but are not limited to, frogs, algae, muskrat, beavers and duck poop.

In order to get the pictures I get I have to walk, wade, sneak and yes, even sometimes, sit down in this stuff. I don't mind. In another life, I'm sure I will be a toad or a frog. But in this life, it's causing some marital difficulties. To wit:

"Are those sneakers of yours in the house?" My wife asked the other day.

"What sneakers?" I said, not wanting to get off the couch.

I knew the sneakers were in the house. But my feet were still wet and I had them propped up on the coffee table, drying out so I wouldn't get some debilitating fungus. Sure, I already have black, brown and green toenails, but at least I can walk. I was watching the Food Network, for what it's worth, while eating a big sandwich.

My favorite show, in fact, one called "Good Eats."

"Those sneakers," she said. And then she started hunting for them in the pile of shoes near the door.

"I can smell them," she said. "I know they're in here."

"Could you keep it down," I pleasantly asked. "I'm trying to watch my show."

"There they are!" she exclaimed, as if she had found a decomposed rat. She picked one up by the shoestring and threw it out the door and then the other.

"Oh God, Chris," she said.

I shrugged.

"It's my job," I explained. "That's what I do. I can't possibly stay dry. C'mon over here and give me a big kiss."

"I'm not getting anywhere near those feet," she said.

"How is this marriage going to work if you're on my case all the time?"

"Take a shower," she said. "Now."

If cleanliness is next to Godliness I have a lot of scrubbing to do. Someone pass the soap.

Chris Peterson is the photographer for the Hungry Horse News.