There is a khaki shirt ubiquitous in the animal field.
The color and fabric come with a particular implication, a
few lines around the eyes and one by the mouth, a wiry set of muscles that
aren't for show, knees that won't get sore no matter how many hours you stand,
pants destroyed by bleach and tearing on cages and animal encounters, stained
beyond repair and indelibly holding hay in the pockets. There are only so many
times you can feed a screaming raccoon after dark or stuff a worm into a bird's
tiny beak or slide a metal tube into a pigeon's throat and watch the tell-tale
bulge letting you know you're in the right tube and not about to drown the bird
in nutritious fluid, cut apart cold meat and put still-warm bodies into the
freezer, seal fresh wounds and clean out others, net escaped birds and catch up
animals who are panicking and animals who are just messing with you, before
something works its way under your skin. It shows not exactly a glow like love or
even a healthy tan, but something like a map on the skin, lines marking the
miles.
Khaki is unflappable, calm and efficient, quick and brave.
Khaki has time to talk to you even when running late, and never needs to run,
although may for fun. Khaki is a color you earn.
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