Watch out Bill Dance, there’s some new competition in town. My wife.

My inlaws have a beautiful home a couple of miles from Black Oak, Arkansas, surrounded by farmland and sporting its very own stocked pond. After a scrumptious family fish fry in our honor on a hot summer afternoon, Jody decided to try her hand at fishing. It didn’t take long before (pardon the pun) she was hooked.

I was inside when I first heard her familiar squeal, the kind I hear when I forget to place the toilet seat back in position for takeoff. In a moment, she stuck her head in the door, her eyes wild with a joyous kind of anger, and announced, “There’s a HUGE fish that took the hook and everything!” With a disturbing gleam in her eyes that told me never to take anything important from this woman she declared, “I’m gonna get him!” and slammed the door. All the fish in the sea collectively shuddered.

Except one. Ten minutes later history repeated itself. Same squeal. Same scene with the door, this time with the exclamation, “He did it AGAIN!” She appeared even more angry, and even more happy. I considered calling 911. Something ugly was bound to happen before the night was over. Since I was hopelessly involved, I thought What the heck I’ll take pictures, grabbed my camera, and sat on the deck at what I hoped was a safe distance from Captain Ahab.

It was such a peaceful scene. Deceiving, of course. Jody was the picture of contentment, holding her rod and reel, gazing out over a tranquil lake, her 83-year-old grandmother sitting quietly at her side.

This is when all hell broke loose. Moby Dick grabbed the bait, hook, and half the demons in the underworld in a single bite, dislodged the reel from Jody’s fishing pole, and in a second commanded the attention of Black Oak, Arkansas. But with all due respect for this monster, he had no idea who he was messing with. I knew, so after a short prayer for his demon soul, I began snapping pictures.

Jody held the reel with both hands and wedged the detached pole under her armpit. She unleashed a series of high-pitched, cackling squeals, admirably refrained from any use of profanity in the presence of her grandmother, and wrestled that monster of a fish up to within a few feet of the deck.

Then came the dilemma – now what? MaMaw Bell looked at me incredulously and exclaimed, “Well, help her!” Although I have great respect for chivalry (and MaMaw Bell), I chose to ignore this plea. On one hand, who would take the pictures? On the other hand, I have a longstanding practice of not trying to help my wife until she clearly yells at me, something she had not to this point done (imagine the rest of my life if she had to share this moment of glory with her husband!). All this leads to a hypothetical third hand: I was also scared of her. She was acting a little crazy.

Anyway, as I suspected, Jody found a way to solve her own dilemma. She ditched the rod and reel, grabbed the fishing line with both hands, lifted both hands high above her head as if she was being arrested (which, by the way, I had earlier suspected might end up being the case before the night was over), and dead lifted the sea monster out of the water and on to the deck (with a deft assist from her grandmother).

I have seen Jody at many proud moments in her life: opening her own business, watching our daughter graduate from high school, and after giving birth to a child. Catching that seven-pound catfish ranks right up there with them.

I believe my wife has discovered a new hobby. Me, too. I’m taking up gambling. And I’m putting all my money on Jody.