story pants

No, no. This is no sisterhood of the traveling pants post. Maybe brotherhood pants, though. We'll see.

Stuck in stunted pre-spring in Yellowknife, I've been living vicariously through TobasKO's travel tales of late -- where he pathologically pushes the boundaries of good taste as he gallivants through Asia this month.

He had one tangent about his choice -- or lack -- of pants, as he wears the same cargo shorts day in and day out, regardless of what happened the day before. I imagine there are some godless odors buried deep within the fibers of those things by now.

Anyways, it got me to thinking about a conservation I had the other day.

Now, I'll admit it. I'm a one or two pair of pants type of guy, and when I'm really busy or stressed, I'll pull my pants off before bed and slip right back into them in the morning, without thinking.

Case in point, during my month in Hay River, I wore one pair of jeans exclusively.

Now, because it's something I don't even think about, I notice when I go to a friend's place and they have a dog or a cat, they are intrigued with my pants. I find myself consistently kicking the pets away from the cuff of my jeans, or from my lap or what have you. It also works the same way with my sweater-hoodie, which goes weeks or months without washing, yet is worn daily. I toss it on the floor, or around a chair, and the animals flock to it like it was Ace Ventura.

It got me to thinking, because I've lived in these things so thoroughly, spilling food on them, sitting in dirty trucks or on the ground outside, dragging them through the mud literally, dogs and cats probably treat my jeans like a reader would a novel. My jeans are a storybook and they sniff away, reading with relish with their noses about what I've been through the last month.

Sometimes I see them smell a part of my pants and then they look at me in the eyes like "Are you kidding me, man?"

I'm kind of getting a kick out of it now, since coming to this realization. I'll remember a drop of ketchup hitting my pants and when the pet goes and smells it, I'll look at it and nod. "Jalepeno corndog," I'll say.

Anyways, I was over at JG and Guy-attine's place the other night and they took my theory a step further. They wondered if the cats and dogs, with their special senses, could predict my future and try to warn me of impending doom...

Well, it's Friday morning and I'm preparing for a weekend of free living at the Sasquatch Festival in Washington State. I'm sure I'll put a couple chapters on my jeans. And thankfully, no cat or dog is barking at me right now, so I must be safe.