Guilty. I confess I am a sucker for bones, antlers, sheds, arrow-heads, rusty horse-shoes— almost any remnants of the past.
Y'day on my ranch visit my neighbor gave me a rack that his uncle had shot in 1959. "I can't keep everything!" was his excuse. Feeble. Hell, I keep everything! What's his problem?
Anyway, it lives with me now.
And my little Boston Terrorist says, "Get RID of it! I hates it lots!"
But what does she know?