Grin, bear it

Editor’s note: This excerpt, “The Permission Seeker” is one of 80 stories from “Fish Tales,” a new collection of humor by Spokane author Alan Liere.

During my years as a permission-seeker, I’ve been refused, humiliated, horrified and hurt. This year, however, my endeavors reached a new, painful low.

While scouting fishing water along the Colville River, I chanced upon a farm home where a clear feeder creek ran practically through the front yard. Even from my car, I could see finning brown trout. Keenly aware that this was a very good sign, I went to the door.

“Ma’am,” I said, when a short, white-haired lady came to the door, “I was just driving by and I noticed…”

“Seldon!” she called over her shoulder, “We got us some company!”

Seldon came up slowly to grin at me over his wife’s shoulder. He looked very much like his wife but he wasn’t wearing lipstick. “Howdy-do,” he said pleasantly. “You come to look at pigs?”

“Well, actually,” I said, “I was hoping to get permission to fish.”

Seldon’s face dropped. This was not good. As a veteran permission-seeker, I knew I had muddied the waters too quickly.

“… but I’m also very interested in pigs,” I lied. “Perhaps after I look at your pigs we can talk about fly fishing.” With that, Seldon and his wife carried me in their wake from the back porch to a fenced pasture where no fewer than 60 pigs lined up to greet us.

“That’s Bitsy,” Seldon said, pointing out a bristly-haired male that looked like a mutated wiener dog. “He’s quite the cutup.”

“Yes,” said his wife. “And that’s Dwayne, his first son. Dwayne is quite the card himself. He can really get the bunch stirred up.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he can,” I said, staring longingly across the pasture where the stream cut through a patch of willows.

“We like Dwayne’s haunches,” said Seldon. “He’s thick, but he’s long, too. Here,” he said, extending his hand to bring the animal nearer, “just feel the thickness.”

“Mmmmm,” I said. “Thick.”

“Dwayne wants to kiss you,” the lady said. “See how he’s cocking his head. Just stick your face over the fence, mister, and I’ll bet you can kiss him.”

“I’m trying to quit,” I mumbled. Nevertheless, I knew the rules of permission- seeking, so I closed my eyes and stuck my face over the fence. Dwayne snorted, lassoing my eyebrows and nose with a great gob of hog slobber.

“Oh my,” Seldon said. “Dwayne must still have a cold.”

In the next hour, I learned the names of and a fair amount of genealogy about every animal in the herd. I also learned more about the intimate habits and personal hygiene of pigs than I ever wanted to know.

“Uh—Seldon,” I finally ventured when it appeared the “tour” was winding down, “about those trout. You think maybe I could come out next weekend and fish that little creek in your front yard?”

“Fish?” Seldon asked. “My creek?” He glared at me suspiciously. Then, he grinned real big. “Say,” he said, “You haven’t seen our banty chickens! You just got to come over to the hen house and look at our banties.”