Wanting something more than what’s offered on the shelf is understandable, but bringing that vision to fruition can be hell to pay.

Six months ago, after a particularly dismal showing at the local shop, I’d resolved to enter the dubbing market utilizing all those techniques and foibles learned in youth, drummed into my head by the legion of old guys I looked up to …

… who didn’t mention anything about what happens to your living room, how the neighbors whisper and draw away when you hail them from across the street – nor the visitations by animal control officers, and the sexually transmitted diseases … which was my surprising initial diagnosis based on the symptoms.

Even less well known is the absence of automation to assist, how you have to make due with Momma’s food processor until she’s spitting guard hairs from a smoothie – and spitting mad moments later.

If you really want to make a difference you’re busy listing all the qualities your stuff will possess that the current fare lacks, then start the slow and methodical search for materials that won’t drive the price upward, are readily available, and can be coaxed, shredded or dyed without violating zoning laws, wastewater treatment permits, or turns your backyard into a superfund site.

That’s your first inclination you’ve bitten off far more than anticipated, and the enormity of what a hasty vow in the parking lot really entails.

As most dubbing products are synthetic, or just rabbit, and monochromatic of color, all the easy stuff is taken. So you range far afield of fishing and acquaint yourself with industries that use fur, threads, yarn, synthetics, and anything resembling hair – and wind up with an education about how car upholstery is made, who makes it, and why it’s unsuitable for flies.

Then you start ordering test snippets by the ounce, pound, or boxcar, hoping in all of that wallet-lightening one or two gems will emerge. They don’t usually, so you’re on to the next vocation hoping their materials are softer, longer, or doesn’t melt when you add water.

A sample arrives and hold plenty of promise. A stiff synthetic fiber that has a nice sheen and would offer wonderful texture to nymph dubbing, as it doesn’t slim down when damp. The fly you proportion in the vise would be same dimensions when fished – instead of resembling a drowned cat when it’s removed from the creek …

Naturally I dye about eight or nine pounds into 20 colors, and my new neighbors are peering over the fence line wondering when the rest of the Gypsies show…

… and I’m not at all bashful when displaying my stained tee shirt, where the rust red slopped over the lip of the pot and I threw my body between it and the linoleum …

… intercepting most of it from neckline to mid torso. Now that my “slasher” outfit was complete, I turn to the curious folks on tiptoe at the fence and shuffle toward them woodenly moaning, “ … mmm, Brains …”

The sliding glass door snicked shut – and I heard the muted sound of a bolt closing on a Remington.

Indoors I’m torturing and mixing the dampened mats – teasing them into 96 colors, of which nine are indispensable, 43 are questionable, and the remainder should be husbanded only because no one else has them.

Monday dawns and I’m back to real work, but can’t help noticing the occasional itch at the waistline or below. As I’m wrappered neatly by a desk I scratch as needed …

A couple days later, I’m thinking … fleas? … or Crabs? Entomology being a strong suit, it’s the only thing I can imagine that’s possibly biting – yet small enough to remain undetected. Monogamous or not, you can’t help but have your life pass before your eyes. How do you pose the question to Momma, much less explain their presence in light of complete chastity?

… all this suffering, just to make a couple fly tiers happy? As with any new material, half the fellows will think their familiar standby is better, the other half will tinker with a pack and shrug, and the last two fellows will think it’s worth purchasing a second pack.

It was neither critter as you might suspect. Texture is a desirable quality, but wrapping the synthetic equivalent of fiberglass insulation around thread and the itching that results is just not worth it.

Rinse and repeat.

Natural fur allowed me to resume my acquaintance with the new neighbors. Each weekend featured all manner of stuff dripping gaily from the clothesline, yet most days I was semi presentable and hailed them while dumping a big bag of shorn animal skins into the trash.

“Hi, my name’s Keith, do you fish?”

“No, I golf.”

Golf. Sigh. I’m determined to make the fellow less twitchy and ease his fears a bit, “Ah, well neighbor, welcome – and if you need dogs looked after or the stereo’s playing too loud, feel free to bang on my door.”

“We’re cat people.”

I notice his gaze fixated behind me, I glance around to see what’s so compelling, and realize that red fox tail has been shorn to resemble a medium tabby – just the right length draped outside of the garbage can to give the fellow real drama.

The garage door slams shut, and I hear frantic whispers then silence.

I return from work to see the crowd in the street huddled over something. I walk up to the onlookers and inquire, and they’re pointing at the “flatty” in the road.

A victim of automation is the way I see it. When the truck emptied my trash into the back, one of my fur donors had slipped out to lie spread-eagled on the roadbed, and shaved opossum can resemble Siamese if the light is right …

The fellow across the street joins the crowd holding the “Missing” poster from the mailbox, “… it might be the same cat” – and while the crowd cranes forward in forensic inquiry, I ease back into the safety of my house – wondering whether it’ll be pitchforks and swords, or just searchlights and SWAT.

… and while I’m close to the final prototypes, with just a bit of adjustment necessary before picking the primary color selection – from napkin to product there is a lot of more than meets the eye.

Marker bulk dubbing, fly tying materials, fly tying humor, do it yourself, opossum, red fox tail, fly tiers, blended fur, capitalism