The Missing Knife

I find myself in the same predicament Little Bo Peep did.  Oh sure, I know where my sheep are, but I’m missing a knife.

There are many knives like this knife, but it's not my knife.

I’m not sure it’s lost.  Things aren’t really lost until you stop searching for them.  Just because you can’t find your car keys doesn’t mean it’s time to call the dealership and order a new set.  It just means you have to look a little more.

I’m missing my Spyderco Salt.  I got a fully serrated Salt several years ago when they first came out.  I remember packing it in a salt paste to see if I could get it to rust.  After 12 hours of keeping the paste moist I cleaned it off and found a clean blade.  But I wasn’t surprised.  It’s a Spyderco.

My nightly knife ritual varies.   During the week when I wear the same pair of pants to work, I leave the knives clipped in the pockets.  (Yeah, I carry two knives, different tools for different jobs.)  If I go out that evening or even if I don’t, two different knives are clipped into the after work pants.  On laundry day I have a different ritual.  Everything comes out of the pockets and goes on the counter.

My wife has a simpler ritual on laundry day.  She checks my pockets because she knows I’m forgetful.

Superbowl Sunday morning she discovered I was missing a knife.  I did a quick tally (Let’s see…one SOG, one CRKT, one Endura, two byrds….Where’s the Salt?) and found out I was missing one.  Call out the dogs!!

The seat belts in our cars tend to catch the clips when I get out, but the knives usually end up next to the seat.  Checked both cars, no dice. 

We were at a restaurant last night and it’s easy for a knife to work out of your pocket and onto the seat or floor.  We called, no dice.

Checked the couch.  I’ve lost and found knives there before.  No dice.

Checked the clothes basket.

Checked the counter, again.

Checked the workbench where I sharpen knives.

Checked the cars, again.

Patted the pockets of clean pants I just put on, just in case.

NO DICE!

I have one more chance.  I remember it at work on Friday.  I could have put it down by the microscope, or on my desk.  I don’t remember opening any packages, but that doesn’t mean too much.  I tend to forget the routine daily functions.  I hope I never get in real trouble -- (“Where were you the night of Dec 22 when Col. Mustard was killed with a candlestick in the kitchen?” The detective said.  “Ahhh, I don’t know,” I reply.)

Sure, I can order another one, but it won’t be the same.  I used that knife to publish an article.  I got it from Joyce who has greatly helped me in my fledgling attempts to publish knife articles.  For a lifeless lump of steel and plastic, it was a great comfort in my pocket.  It was a touchstone to so many people and events.  A new one wouldn’t be the same.