You know how you sleep in just an hour or so, saying it's because the little maskless heeler needs a little extra time on the soft bed before being banished to her kennel for the day, when in reality, it's been a long fall already and the bed feels so good?

And how you spend the next hour or so unloading the eight wing barrels that you and her sister collected yesterday. And when you find the truck bed covered with white, scriggling maggots you know the flies got to your grouse wings, so you tear open the ripped trash bag full of said wings, dump the paper bags containing each barrelful of wings on the dirt driveway and begin shaking the maggots out. And fetch the Raid from the kitchen so you can kill whatever maggots are left in the wings, and maybe keep more from being laid.

Now, already an hour and a half behind schedule, you have four more barrels to collect before dropping the truck off for new tires and an alignment. And you're almost out of gas, because you tried to make the full big part of the barrel route yesterday on just one tank and you watched the gauge carefully for all of the last four hours, 'cause there ain't no filling stations anywhere out there, and you drove five to ten miles below the speed limit just to garner a couple extra pints of fuel.

So, as you're rushing to gas up and gather those last four barrels, which absolutely, positively have to be gotten this morning, as the next four days are going to be spent on the openings of three different elk seasons, you run into your neighbor biologist. And you lose another half hour or more at the pumps, discussing just about everything that's been building up for the past month or so (and hey, we collected almost twice as many CWD samples from his deer area as he did).

And finally, as you're leaving town two hours late for a two hour chore with seven minutes less than two hours to do it in (And that matters, not because you don't want to deliver the truck to the shop a little late, but because the wife is planning on giving you a ride home during her lunch break, and every minute you're late is a minute taken from her midday rest period.), you're finally off to gather the last four barrels, and their wings.

And you rush through the barrels, getting the first one down and loaded in less than four minutes. And you race through the second barrel, only a couple miles away, flinging it out of its wire nest and onto the ground, only to discover you dropped that 45-gallon thick steel drum, with it's raised rim, squarely on the toes of your right foot.

You know how that hurts, right?

'Course, time's a wastin', and there's two more barrels to go and miles in between. The foot will have to wait. And lo and behold, you make it to the shop with a few minutes to spare, and the right foot hardly hurts at all as you hobble the block uphill to the wife's building, and naturally she's not at the Explorer yet, so you get to further exercise the tender digit up three flights of stairs.

And finally, later that evening when you get home and get brave enough to look at said foot, you know what you find?