Where I grew up in Tacoma...on Mckinley Hill...there lived next door a hermit of a man named Kinniby who was famous in his own right as a hunter. He trained and kept hounds for tracking bear, cougar, wolves, etc. This is 65 years ago and the mountains east of the cities were wild.
I remember watching him skin out a cougar in his garage. it hung from the rafters to the floor. Anyway, I grew up thinking that a cougar was a large member of the cat family that preyed on other animals and was sometimes dangerous to man but always to livestock.
But I married a "cougar" fully ignorant of that fact until the word surfaced with an entirely new definition: "An older woman who lusts after a younger man." Every year, for four months, I make lite of the fact that my wife is an older woman. It's not a bad thing; it's a good thing; because everybody knows I need all the help I can get; things like, "Is that a clean shirt?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Have you showered today?" and.....anyway.
Well, the day of the cougar is not too far away; Wednesday next, after which I am licensed to enjoy four months of reminding my bride that she is "the older woman" in my life. But come November I pay for it dearly because that's when I catch up and she gets to look me in the eyes and ask, "And how many are we today?" and I look at the floor in feign of discouragement and quietly answer..."seventy ****" It can only be one of three numbers, I guess you know.
Oh yes; a birthday present...hmmm...perhaps I will no longer call her a cougar...at least for a day or so. Naaaaahh! What fun would that be? e.c.