A late night chat with your spouse often reveals those endearing little quirks that makes marriage so interesting, such as the fact that she intends to have your body to be eaten by squirrels.

This discovery was made while my wife and I were enjoying one of those rare quiet moments when the children were finally nestled snug in their beds under threat of physical violence and the dog had collapsed on the couch after spending the day slobbering on the living room windows. The house was quiet except for the sound of my nerve endings slowly repairing themselves after a typical day at our little estate, Bedlam Acres.

During a rambling discussion of the day’s events, I mentioned a news story from Maine where a fisherman had hauled up a metal casket while pulling in his nets. It turned out the casket was from a previous burial at sea and the Coast Guard eventually ordered the coffin be dropped back over the side. With a streak of mischief, I commented that perhaps the crabs in the area could now finish their dinner.

This remark received the typical response from my wife, consisting of a vigorous eye roll and half-hearted attempt to crush my skull with the fireplace poker. She also questioned my upbringing, though the eccentricity of my childhood is well documented.

My brother and I grew up at funeral parlor and share many fond memories of playing hide-and-go-seek in the casket showroom and other such childhood amusements. My father was also a nationally known genealogist who considered a family vacation incomplete unless we had stomped through several overgrown cemeteries in search of some distant relative who was hung in 1834 for horse thievery. I mention this simply to give insight into my somewhat peculiar sense of humor and general lack of emotional baggage for things pertaining to life’s final buzzer.

Once my wife was suitable disgusted, I further developed the entire crab-related storyline and ended by pointing out that crustaceans will eat any old thing lying around the sea floor, which is a pleasant thought to consider while eating shrimp cocktail.

I then switched gears to reflect upon the idea that burial at sea would lend the deceased a considerable degree of style and panache, certainly more so than the typically dull funeral. My wife was looking at me with a growing mixture of horror, concern and amusement but I continued my aberrant discourse to conclude with what I consider the supreme manner in which to end a long outdoor career: as a missing person.

While any old fool can fall off a cliff and generate a bit of publicity, a truly noteworthy demise is one where people conjecture for months or even years about what happened and when your body might be located. If you play your cards right, you might even end up as a legend, causing people to speculate that you might still be out there somewhere, getting the last laugh on society as you live a rustic but happy life in the wilderness. Alternately, your story could be told late at night around a thousand campfires, causing the hair on countless necks to stand at attention as you join the boogey man and Bigfoot in upcoming nightmares.

My wife has a more traditional viewpoint on such matters but she surprised me after a minute when she finally revealed her plans for whenever I reach my expiration date. Her proposal was to send me aloft in my favorite tree stand where I can spend eternity watching a deer trail. “While hosting several thousand types of decay organisms,” I added cheerfully.

The idea of spending perdition waiting for that trophy buck holds a certain appeal but I have serious misgivings because squirrels often gnaw on tree stand platforms and would probably give the same treatment to any bygone hunters in residence. This concern was greeted with derisive laughter as she pointed out that I had no problem a few moments earlier with the idea of crabs dining on my eyeballs. I had to admit that she had a point.

Since the digestive tract of tree-dwelling rodents doesn’t hold much appeal as a final resting-place, I hope to come up with other suggestions for fitting last rites as I try desperately to extend the planning stages for many more decades. Unfortunately, unless I play my cards right and manage to disappear in the Canadian Rockies or go missing somewhere in the Caribbean, the odds say my demise will probably be as mundane as the rest of humanity.

If given the choice, I would just pass quietly in my sleep much like my bus-driving great-uncle.

Hopefully, I won’t go down screaming like his passengers.

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