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The cabin was smelly and warm, made toasty by three old trapping buddies.  Dick, the coyote man, Mark, the mink maestro, and Always-alive Raccoon Roy.
Raccoon Roy lit up his cigar, and offered the boys one.  He had been handing these sixty-five year old boys cigars since they were eight; as he had twenty-four years on them.
“I can tell you which county a coyote comes from, just from looking at the pelt,” Dick said.
“I can tell you where his last scat is, just by looking at a trapped mink,” Mark said.
They both took a puff and studied each other.
“I can tell you who trapped it, by looking at its head,” Dick said.
“I can tell you what month it was born by touching its fur,” said Mark.
They glared at each other.
“I can tell that you two have not changed a bit,” said Always-Alive Roy.
They bragged, and they laughed, and they trapped for three days and three nights.
A last hurrah for Raccoon Roy, as it was his final hunt, him being eighty-nine, and having only a month left due to a horrible disease called cancer.  A terrific reminder to the other two that they were still the same boys who had met in kindergarten sixty years earlier, and they should trap together as long as they could.

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