Once upon a time I had a rabbit fur coat. I loved that coat. It was the warmest, softest, most wonderful coat I'd ever owned. Yes, I realized little bunnies were sacrificed to make that coat. But this was the 60's and who cared. I wore that coat until the fur came off and it looked diseased. My mother refused to be seen in church with me, people shied away from me on the street thinking it might be contagious, and occasionally a dog would attack me, but I remained faithful to my coat. Finally the stitching gave way and large gaps began to appear around the seams and a cold spell forced me to purchase a new wool coat with a fake fur collar for which I was unable to develop any affection. The bunnycoat was ceremoniously laid to rest in the attic where I found it after my mother died, not looking much worse after 30 years. I put it on and thought, "My god. No wonder my mother was embarrassed." Youth can be so stubbornly, achingly blind.
The point of this rambling, seemingly irrelevant, and probably incoherent foray into sentiment, is that the skin beneath the fur on my beloved coat was velvety soft and pliable. And can rabbit and goatskin be too far removed from each other? So really, the men of DAR should be flattered that I have compared their hands to februa. And thank me.
You're welcome. |
