The older I get, the more my memory resembles Swiss cheese — full of holes and smells faintly of regret. I can remember running big projects and doing complicated math in my head once upon a time. Of late it seems that Ol’ Dutch can't even recall what he had for breakfast although that should be easy since it's always the same.

A two-egg omelet and coffee. I think. They - whoever they are - say, “If you don’t use it, you lose it.” Folks quote that about everything from brain power to golf swings to the bedroom arts, and I suppose it’s true although the old men with the little blue pill do seem to recall how to use that much to their partners' chagrin .

But Miss Trixie has maintained her level of brain powered efforts, so it seems. Her memory works like one of those steel traps the fur trappers used — snaps shut on my mistakes and never lets go. While my steel trap seems to have rusted shut. She can recall, in full detail, every misstep I’ve made in the 13 years we’ve been together. Not just what I did, but the exact date, time of day, and who all was present to witness my shame. She calls it “keeping track.” I call it “evidence gathering” for the deposition to follow.

My Grandpa used to call these little disagreements between co-habitants a  “rhubarb.” I call them “Trixie Says  Something I Don’t Remember.” Which, according to her, is convenient since Ol’ Dutch lives in a state of blissful stupidity. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, but I’ve decided not to remember that either. Now, to be fair, her talent comes in handy. Since I can’t recall squat, she can make up whatever version of events she likes. And Ol’ Dutch? I don’t much care what version she spouts off. If the fish are biting, the elk are bugling, and supper’s on the table, she can be as right as rain and my life is peaceful bliss.

Lately, though, strangers from my “past” keep trying to get in touch. I get emails and texts every day from people who say, “Do you remember me?” Trouble is, they don’t give a name or clue how we met. It’s like playing the world’s worst game of Guess Who. And I then worry that someone is in dire need of my expertise or friendship. My late father, Fast Freddy, answered all of those types of emails. Being a pastor of 75 years, he figured anyone reaching out must really need him. By doing so, he signed himself up for enough spam to feed the U.S. Army through World War II, Korea, and maybe the opening act of Vietnam.

Every time his computer got locked down, Miss Trixie had to put in eight hours of emergency un-hacking to save his email from whatever prince, lottery, or sweepstakes he’d believed in that week. She never did break him of that habit even though she tried to throw away the key that came with every can of spam.

So far, Ol’ Dutch has resisted the temptation to respond to these types of “fishing” expeditions by complete strangers.  But I do worry that someday age will catch up to me, and I’ll click on something that promises a free bass boat or a check from my long-lost uncle, King Oblongatta of Nigeria.Until then, anyone who really needs me already knows the secret: call Miss Trixie. She’s got the memory—and the password to my life. And Ol’ Dutch. He just goes blindly on, happily relieved of all pressing matters in life.

Kevin Kirkpatrick spends his days fishing, hunting, ATVing, hiking or making people laugh. His email is Kevin@TroutRepublic.com. Additional news can be found at www.troutrepublic.com or on Twitter at TroutRepublic.