Get out your red paint!
Here I am: The most despicable of creatures, a bloodthirsty and heartless soul capable of the most unspeakable cruelty to living beings.
In short, I have a fur coat.
It is made of raccoons. I shall be more precise: It is made of dead raccoons.
I freely acknowledge their unfortunate state as they hang in my closet:
They are ex-raccoons, deceased raccoons, late lamented raccoons. They have passed on to their eternal reward; they have crossed the River Styx; they have gone the way of all raccoon flesh.
Indeed, they are no more likely to forage in my garbage can than my shoes are to moo.
It is most unfortunate. I heartily wish that a living creature did not have to die so that I could have a fur coat. For I am not the savage and unfeeling beast that some would make me out to be. I am just cold.
My principles are not even so distant from those of the animal-rights movement that views my fur coat with such apoplexy. I do not believe any living thing should die unless it is strictly necessary.
We differ, I assume, in our definitions of ”strictly necessary.” I consider my fur coat strictly necessary. I offer as proof last week.
Do you remember it being cold out? Do you recall a biting, snarling wind that flailed away at your body, trying to whip your skin off, and then settled deep into your bones, inducing severe shivering and utter misery?
I don`t. I remember pleasant midday walks up the Boul Mich, a little brisk around the face, but toasty elsewhere. Of course, my walks weren`t entirely comfortable. I did get a little overheated after a few blocks.
I offer as further proof Jan. 10, 1982, the day when the temperature fell to 26 degrees below zero, Chicago`s record cold temperature.
I stood outside my office a little while on that day to put my fur coat to the tests. I waited, hands in fur pockets. My breath started to freeze in the muffler I had wrapped around my face. I waited some more.
And-nothing. I felt no cold. At least, not under my coat. My head and face, encased in heavy wool, felt as if they were traversing Antarctica on a dog sled. But the rest of me was in Miami. Not a shiver; not a hint of chill. Just pure, marvelous warmth.
You may ask why I do not wear the down from a dead goose, which some seem to feel would be a better ethical choice and which would certainly be a lot less expensive.
I have tried goose down. I have had down coats, down jackets and down mittens. I have been cold. Down is to fur as a AA battery is to a nuclear power plant.
I have tried silk underwear, polypropylene glove liners and long johns. Fur is better, not to mention considerably more attractive at the office than long johns.
There are those who want me to feel guilty about wearing fur. But then I would have to feel guilty about a lot of things.
You know those terrific-looking black-and-white cows? I eat them. Yes, and I wear them on my feet.
And those fuzzy little baby chicks I like to watch hatching at the Farm in the Zoo? I eat grownup versions of them. I eat sweet little lambs, too, although, frankly, not very often because I actually do feel guilty.
I like cows. I also like hamburgers. I wish hamburgers could be made of dandelions instead of cows.
In fact, I would sooner give up eating meat than wearing fur. I like being warm better than I like eating hamburgers.
But I do not have the time to cook vegetarian meals. And I do not have the constitution to endure a Chicago winter without fur.
On my winter walks, I am tempted to nod conspiratorially to my fellow fur-wearers. You, too, dare to clothe yourself in the mortal coils that furry creatures have shuffled off? A silent kinship seems to pass between us. We are politically incorrect; we are warm.
Torture me with ice packs, and I will admit it-I think fur coats are beautiful. I feel terrific and terribly lucky every time I wear mine. I search my psyche for twinges of guilt or regret, and all I find is unadulterated delight.
