The Moose Whisperer

Talcum Siemens prides himself on being the most adept moose whisperer in the state. Most folks'll grant him this and three or four adjoining counties, but as for the entire state, well, a fella named Harkness up near Butte might take offense to that claim. Only it ain't really whispering. More like cajoling, with a touch of secular seduction thrown in. Talcum, especially with three or four Coors in him--and most folks don't know any other kind of Talcum--don't whisper nothing, not even sweet nothings in his better half Gloria's ears, well, ear, the unsevered one. He a hollerer, what Filbert Octane says. But maybe that hollerin' cajolin' is what works best on a moose. Photographic evidence aside, not a one person I know can exorcise the ornery outta a moose quicker and more permanently than old Talcum. Filbert Octane says I'm speaking in Coors tongues everytime I tell the story, but I swear on my NRA lifetime membership I once witnessed Talcum command a moose to sit, beg for some jerky, and then roll over. He a shaman or whatnot, I tell Filbert; Filbert spits and say sham-man more'n'likely and you the shammee, Sistrunk. Filbert's envious of the world on account of his neck, or lack thereof.

Anyway, the picture. Yep. Since I was no more than boot high the Old Men round here grunt and say trust a moose, but never moose. As in meese, plural. They say it like they chanting something in church they been chanting and believing without thinking their whole lives. I expect Talcum is now a convert. Said he was drinking out back with Honey Dew, his all-time favorite moose, like usual whenever Gloria gets to unraveling her list of wifely demands. Honey Dew allegedly likes Olympia better, cording to Talcum, but all Talcum had in cooler was his usual Coors case, so Honey Dew condescended to hoist a few with Talcum. Nothing out of the ordinary, swears Talcum, just the usual repartee tween man and moose--Gloria's nagging, the price of gas from Talcum, derned ticks and those bastard Sasquatches from Honey Dew--and then Talcum gets up for a routine Coors drain and then--midstream--wham, Kryptonite, the one moose in these parts not on speaking terms with Talcum and who, cording to Talcum, is a bad influence on all the others--knocks him down and apparently out. Next thing he knows he wakes up on top of his truck, trussed, with who but Filbert Octane ("cahoots, I tell you, one hundred percent cahoots," Talcum raged later over a couple recuperative Coors in my smokehouse) snapping pictures while Kryptonite smirks behind the wheel. That's Kryptonite's protege Jimmy in the back with bottle. Honey Dew, sans beer, looking sheepish between the two, apologized like hell to Talcum afterward. Talcum's playing non-commital with his forgiveness at present, but he can't hold a grudge long on Honey Dew we all agree.

"Wait 'til bow-hunting season, Sistrunk. Wait 'til then," is about all Talcum will say these days. "Filbert Octane's gonna find out what's for."