That Mink Stole is Alive

When I was little, I guess I told my grandfather I wanted a fur coat. My mom said I was about four years old. Actually, he asked me what I wanted more than anything, and I told him, “a fur coat, Grandpa.” My grandfather was a land developer and strip miner, so he had some money to throw around. So, he went out and bought me a little coat that had a real fur collar. My mom said that he had it made for me. I guess four year olds don’t usually wear fur coats. I don’t remember the coat, of course, but if I did, the thrill didn’t last too long, because she made him take it back.

The bitch.

I don’t know what it was with women and their fur during that time. It was a status symbol for sure, just like diamonds or perhaps parking a Mercedes in your driveway. My mom had a fur coat in her closet. I thought it was ugly. It wasn’t a full length coat, but a jacket that she wore when she went to important dinners that my dad took her to once in a blue moon. Come to think of it, I think it was a mink stole.

My mom had her fur coat hanging on a wire hanger under a long thin plastic bag that looked like a dry cleaning bag. I used to go into her room and pull the fur coat off of the hanger and put it on. She always demanded to know who the guilty culprit was that kept ripping the plastic that was convering the fur coat.

I told her it was my sister.

I used to slip into my plastic little girl high heels and then put the massively large mink stole on my tiny little body. I was styling. It was just way too big for me. So, imagine my delight when Mom came home one day with a smaller fur coat. It was just a thin little thing that you wrapped around your shoulders. On closer inspection, however, I noticed that the damn thing had a couple of animal heads at the ends.

Poor Minky

What the hell?

I waited until she was downstairs in the basement, sewing, and went into her bedroom to get a better look at the thing. I took it out of its little box, where he was just lying there, sleeping.

It was looking at me.

There were two heads…..looking at me.

I petted it. And then promptly named it Minky. Now, you have to understand that I named everything. If my dad went fishing and came home with a fish, I named it. Sure, it may have been dead, but I gave it a name anyhow.

So, I sat there on my mom’s bed, petting Minky, when I noticed the damn fur piece had legs.

I mean, what the hell? Legs.

And so I started crying. Poor poor Minky. How could anyone kill this poor little animal just to put it around their neck?

I decided that I hated my mom. This was all her fault.

She killed Minky.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I hid my mom’s mink stole. It wasn’t a great place, mind you, but I put Minky in my pillowcase. That way he could be near me, alongside my other critters I slept with every night.

Well, I guess I should know that Mom’s change the sheets on the beds every once in a while, and my mom found Minky one morning when I was eating my Rice Krispies in front of the tv.

“Vickie, why is my mink stole in your bed?”

I don’t really remember what happened exactly, but I remember bursting into tears…… And then blaming my sister.

I could never understand how my mother could wear animal feet around her neck.  And from that moment on I vowed that I would never wear animal feet around my neck. Look at these poor little mink. Sure, they look vicious. But, why should they trust people? We killed their ancestors and threw them around our necks and went dancing.

Politically incorrect I know, but I was pretty sure my mom and anyone else who wore fur coats with heads and legs attached….must be retarded.

As I got older and my mom really had no use for the mink stole any longer, I would take it out and pretend like it was alive while playing with my dog, Cricket. After that, I really have no idea what happened to Minky. It may have been used as a Halloween prop. I really don’t know. My mom is in a nursing home, and my sister is living in her house. For all I know, Minky could still be in her bedroom closet.

Poor Minky.