I mean, I gave it to him -- to keep.
It was a reward of sorts. He'd conducted himself admirably over the weekend, including the night before when an allergic reaction put him in the back of an ambulance on the way to the emergency room. Besides, his grandparents, who raise broken promises to an art form, short-sheeted him at Christmas.
So he deserved that knife, and the look on his face showed me all the appreciation I could've hoped to see. When I rolled out of bed this morning, however, there was no pocketknife on my nightstand where the Farmer used to be.
I wasn't without choices, of course -- quite the opposite, and that was the rub. In fact, it took me a good long while to decide which of my slipjoints I'd slip into my jeans pocket today.I ended up choosing a 1980s-vintage canoe, a four-blade Kissing Crane (Solingen) with yellow scales. With its filigreed main blade it looks rather like a dandy's knife, but it's always been a favorite of mine. It's solid and useful, and I think it'll ride with me for a while.
I do need to replace that Farmer, though.
