I’ve never desired to be anything other than a woman. However, there are times when I’m just really, really glad I’m not a man. Though there are women out there who can do a lot of things men can do, when it comes to the disposal of a creature around here, the lot falls on the boss man.

Recently, raccoons ripped a huge hole in the side of the chicken coop, stole eggs and did all they could to carry off the layers. We’ve lost a lot of hens and chicks to raccoons through the years, so we often use a live trap.

By morning there’s usually a masked bandit cowering inside the cage. I’m the one who goes to the barn in the morning, so I notify the man that he’s got a job to do, and that’s the last thing I want to know.

I’ve dragged my fair share of stock animals out of the barn after they’ve died, but that’s different. Hauling off the enemy as it meets its demise … well, my ignorance prefers bliss.

Perhaps that’s what it’s like to work for the mafia. The boss man tells someone to “take care of business,” and the business gets taken care of while the boss man isn’t privy to the details. He gets to keep his hands clean. His intimidation tactics come through the brutality of someone else.

Glad to be a man

The boss man around here is gentle and kind, and not prone to destruction unless it means protecting something else. That’s a gift God instilled in the male species, and I’m grateful, because along with varmints, there are also big spiders in the world that someone must deal with.

With other species, I fight a twinge of compassion. I see the scared raccoon in the cage or the little mouse nose in the trap and something comes over me. But spiders are evil and bent on terrifying the world, specifically me.

My husband would say there are many times he’s extremely grateful he’s not a woman. Childbirth would definitely be at the top of the list, but then so would utilizing the little brush that stands upright in the cute little holder in the bathroom. Not that women can’t kill spiders and dispose of dead animals and men don’t clean a mean toilet. But in our household, we’re quite content with our self-imposed, gender-specific ways.

McClain writes from Greenwood, Ind.