My grandfather, who used to hunt for sport, has a gazelle head mounted in the room where he spends most of his time, along with other collected hunting items, a topi head and a bear rug. He insists that they died naturally, that he only helped a little. I suppose this is morally wrong in several ways; nevertheless, I grew up with them, and am very fond of these exotic dead animal bits -- as a girl, I'd memorize their species names avidly. I'm also not averse to fur-wearing, mainly because it keeps me warm in the winter, a difficult feat. Though guilty in some ways, I feel excused for wearing fur items by treating them like pets. In the summertime, they go to stay at Joseph's Fur's -- and I mention this to strongly assert that Joseph's Fur's is, in fact, a furrier, and not, contrary to popular belief, a brothel, despite the amazing would-be euphemism. Each time I go to Joseph's Fur's, the owner (I believe), an old man (his name must be Joseph?), says to me:
"Zelda, right?"
[Me:] "Mmm-hmm."
"Now, how can you put your arm around a woman name 'Zelda' and tell her you love her?"
"Oh--"
"My wife's name is Selma. How can you say to a woman, 'I love you, Selma.' 'I love you, Zelda.' It's not right."
Regardless, it's Zelda. And it does wonderful, funny things with the word "Gazelle." Maybe you can't tell a girl named Zelda you love her, but at least you can call her Gazelda. Gazelleda. Zegazelleda.... Zelda-Gazelle. Da.
0 comments:
Post a Comment