Mink Oil

There I was, standing in the garage, admiring my boots like a proud parent at a school play. They'd seen better days - scuffed from adventures and dull from neglect - but I had a plan. Hay had picked up a tin of mink oil from somewhere, convinced by the promises of rejuvenated leather and a waterproof shine. Little did I know, this tin held more surprises than a Christmas cracker.

I unscrewed the lid, took in the vaguely animalistic scent, and slathered the stuff on my boots with the fervour of a Michelin-starred chef basting a roast. They gleamed beautifully, the leather soaking in the oil like it had been stranded in the Sahara. I was so pleased with myself.

Then came the idle thought. Why is it called mink oil? I assumed it was one of those charmingly archaic terms, like "goose grease," that had more to do with folklore than actual animal ingredients. After all, who in their right mind would take a mink - a small, slinky creature with the air of a fashion diva - and turn it into boot polish?

But curiosity got the better of me, so I reached for my phone and searched. It turns out that mink oil is exactly what it says on the tin: oil from minks. Specifically, their fat.

The realisation hit me like a misplaced hammer. My boots were practically wearing tiny mink jackets. The mental image was both ludicrous and horrifying: a mink in a leather apron, polishing boots in a Victorian cobbler’s shop. My ethical sensibilities began to twitch. Was this why the tin hadn't come with a "cruelty-free" badge?

It got worse. As I dug deeper into the history of mink oil, I discovered it had been a staple of fur farming by-products for years. That lovely sheen on my boots? Courtesy of an animal that might have otherwise been starring in a 1920s coat catalogue. My boots were not just waterproof - they were complicit.

I found myself staring at my newly polished footwear with a mix of admiration and guilt. They looked magnificent, but at what cost? The boots, of course, were unmoved by the moral dilemma. They simply shone with smug satisfaction, oblivious to the existential crisis they had triggered.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, a person who frets over whether bees are ethically treated in honey production, now walking around with minks on my feet. I felt like apologising to every passing squirrel.

So, what did I learn from this adventure? First, always read the label - and maybe do a quick Google search - before slathering something on your possessions. Second, if you're going to use mink oil, make peace with the fact that your boots might look amazing, but your conscience might not.

As for my boots, they're now the best-looking pair I own, but I can't help imagining the ghost of a disgruntled mink trailing me wherever I go. If I hear tiny squeaks in the dead of night, I’ll know why.