by Galen Winter
Peabody obediently sat. “I’d offer you a drink, Albert,” he said, “but I just ran out of Scotch.” Then he compounded that lie by adding: “I don’t have much time. I’ve got an appointment with my attorney in another half hour. Complicated tax matters that need….”
“I want to talk to you about my dog,” Meeker interrupted, apparently not hearing a word of the Major’s attempt to get rid of him.
“Oh?” said Peabody.
“Yes. I’m having a bit of difficulty with him. I understand you have some kind of rapport with dogs so I decided to take advantage of your expertise.”
“Oh?”
“Pinky is my German Shorthair and I paid plenty of bucks for him - a lot more than you’d be able to afford. The breeder assured me Pinky came from a long line of exceptional bird dogs - Blue Ribbon field trial stuff, he told me. Great instincts bred into the animal, he guaranteed. Well, I shipped Pinky off to a trainer who came well recommended. I was sure he knew what he was doing when I saw the size of his bill. Only a really skilled dog trainer could get away with charging that much.”
Peabody made a show of looking at his wrist watch, raising his eyebrows and exclaiming. “I didn’t know it was this late. I’ve really got to get…”
“You won’t believe this, Major,” Meeker interrupted. “I immediately had trouble with Pinky. He didn’t want to leave the trainer’s kennel. He cowered when I repeatedly yelled at him to ‘come’. I had to grab his leash and jerk him out of there. I took him hunting and he behaved abominably. He’d work in front of the other hunters, but he wouldn’t work anywhere near me. I cuffed him a few times. It didn’t help much.”
“I can’t understand why a good cuffing didn’t produce results,” Peabody muttered.
“I agree, Major,” Meeker said, oblivious to Peabody’s sarcasm. “It certainly didn’t have the affect I expected. Pinky hunted in front of me during the afternoon, but the birds he flushed were well beyond shotgun range. The men I hunted with gave Pinky doggie treats, patted him on the head and kept saying ‘good dog’. I know they were trying to be helpful, but it didn’t do any good. Pinky would hunt for them, but he wouldn’t hunt for me.”
Meeker didn’t notice the Major close his eyes and slowly shake his head in disbelief of the man’s inability to understand his hunting companions’ approval of Pinky’s antipathy toward him. “That dog trainer did a rotten job,” Meeker grumbled. “I took the dog back to him and complained.”
“And?”
“The trainer called me the next morning. Can you imagine the nerve of the rascal? He claimed there was nothing wrong with the dog. While driving home, I saw a worrisome change in Pinky’s behavior. Whenever I get close to him, he’d growl at me. When I tried to cuff him, he snapped at me. He nipped a hole in my sleeve. It was a very expensive English tweed jacket.”
“Whatever would motivate Pinky to growl at you?” the Major asked. “Surely, your considerate treatment of the animal should have made Pinky admire and respect you.”
“I agree, I agree,” Meeker agreed, “but there you have it. Pinky attacked me for no good reason. I’d like you to take him for a few weeks and see if you can rehabilitate him. I won’t insult you by offering to pay for your services.”
The outline of a plan began to form in Peabody’s mind. “It sounds like you’ve got a vicious animal on your hands, Meeker,” he announced. “I’m not sure anything can be done. Who named him Pinky?”
“I did,” Meeker admitted.
The Major’s response was: “Hmmnnn”. He slowly nodded his head, paused for a few seconds of contemplation and then asked: “Did you have Pinky fixed?”
“Of course,” Meeker answered.
“Hmmnnn. You have a very serious problem, Meeker.”
“How serious?”
“The dog is planning to kill you.”
“WHAT?”
“Yes, Meeker. Pinky intends to murder you. You’re lucky you got home with no more damage than a torn jacket.” Meeker’s jaw dropped, his eyes opened widely and his eyebrows rose to their maximum height as he telegraphed his consternation. “To those of us who are experienced in dog psychology,” the Major continued, “it is obvious. To give a hunting dog a name like ‘Pinky’ can destroy its self-image. Think of how the other dogs - ‘Hunter’ or ‘Bruno’ or ‘Max’- would kid a hunting dog named ‘Pinky’. Add your decision to neuter him and you can understand why the dog hates you.
“Apparently, Pinky is rebelling as a result of the humiliation suffered because of his name and the degradation caused by the neutering. Clearly, he believes only one kind of revenge will salvage his honor. Yes, Meeker, Pinky will be satisfied only when he has killed you.”
“Good God, Peabody. You’re right,” Meeker exclaimed as he leaped from the chair. “That damned dog is out to get me. I’ll have the vet put him down immediately.”
“No need to run the risk of getting that close to Pinky,” Peabody said, putting his arm around Meeker and gently leading him toward the door. “I’ll pick him up tomorrow morning and, one way or another, I’ll get rid of him for you.”
Meeker was relieved. “You are, indeed, a good friend, Major,” he said. “Some day we’ll have to go back to South Dakota for another of those great hunts.”
Peabody’s response was: “Ahhh…. yes .…ahhh ….well .. ..ahhh…. I’ll check my schedule.”
* * * * *
Doc Carmichael was still in his hunting clothes when he dialed the Major’s telephone number. “Hello, Peabody,” he said. “Pinky and I just got back from the game farm. He is a jewel. Of course, I thought you were trying to peddle a dog that couldn’t hunt or one with a bad nose, but I apologize for thinking you had something up your sleeve. I can’t remember when I’ve worked with a better bird dog.
“Before you change your mind, you’ve got a deal,” Carmichael quickly added. “I’ll be over this afternoon with the $600. Frankly, I wonder why you’d ask so little for such a great dog.”
“Assign it to the large volume of the milk of human kindness that runs through my veins,” the Major explained. “I felt sorry for the poor animal. I suspected Pinky was an excellent hunter. I knew his owner was a jerk and I knew the dog was being abused. I wanted to find a good home for him.”
Peabody didn’t tell Carmichael the $600 just happened to be the amount he needed to finance a pheasant hunt in Iowa.
Don’t Foot Around with Major Peabody
The lovely Stephanie invited me to escort her to the tenth annual reunion of her so-very-exclusive finishing school. I had attended the fifth annual reunion. It was an experience I shall never forget. I did not fit in with the rest of the celebrants. When introduced to them, I was rudely cross-examined. One of the lovely Stephanie’s college friends, named Linda something or other, questioned my lineage and found me to be socially unacceptable. The word immediately passed throughout the entire assemblage.
“His great-great-grand parents came over from Germany in 1843? Oh dear.” she whispered to a friend and quickly walked away, leaving the impression I was carrying the Black Plague. Later she was heard to say: “Poor Stephanie. He’s practically an immigrant. How can she let herself be seen with him?” I decided I would never, never ever attend another of those ghastly affairs.
I enjoy being in the presence of the lovely Stephanie. Nevertheless, when she asked me to escort her to that reunion, I had to find a way to decline. The prospect of a luncheon, a soiree and a dinner followed by a country club dance - all in the presence of her finishing school sisters and their thin blooded husbands - was terrifying.
I immediately recalled a non-existent client and a non-existent case and a non-existent trial. I would be tied up for at least two days. The trial, I ruefully reported to her, was scheduled to begin on the same day as her class reunion. To be on the safe side, I told the trial would be held in Utah.
I was pleased with the deception. I complimented myself by thinking it was the sort of story Major Peabody would fabricate. The lo
vely Stephanie bought it. But, ‘Oh what a tangled net we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ The lovely Stephanie asked for the name of the senior member of my firm. She planned to call him, introduce herself, explain her problem and demand he send some junior partner to Utah to handle the case.
When she reached for the phone, I panicked. My association with the Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen law firm could easily come to an abrupt ending. I could imagine the reaction of the humorless Roberson Smythe when a strange young lady demanded he send a lawyer to replace me in the defense of a bogus client at a bogus trial in a far away State - and all because of a conflict with her social calendar. Heads would roll. At least, one particular head would roll.
I asked myself what the Major would do if he found himself in such a pickle. The answer was immediate. He would find some way to insinuate me into the equation and let me struggle with the problem. Perhaps I could do the same for him.
I reminded the lovely Stephanie of the very minor and insignificant incident with “friend” Linda who felt my family had not been on the continent for an appropriate amount of time. I reported the acute pain I would feel if Linda, inadvertently, of course, caused the lovely Stephanie any discomfort because of my presence. I told her Major Peabody was a direct descendent of early Virginia settlers who were here in the New World before the Pilgrims landed. Peabody would be an excellent escort. The lovely Stephanie thought the Major would be a marvelous substitution and gave up the idea of calling Robertson Smythe.
I called the Major, lied to him, bullied him and played upon his admiration for the lovely Stephanie. He agreed to be her escort and I was off the hook.
* * * * *
When Linda received the lovely Stephanie’s notice of attendance and identification of escort, she checked historical society records and discovered Peabody’s Virginia pedigree. She was livid. The Major’s colonial credentials were better than hers. Looking for dirt, she Googled him - and she found it. She uncovered Peabody’s extensive hunting activities. Linda convinced some of her anti-gun classmate to put the Major in his place. By painting him as a gun owning, bird murdering monster, she’d teach the lovely Stephanie for attempting to up-stage her by bringing an escort with more solid colonial credentials.
Peabody entered the reception arena and smiled when he saw the white shirted, black tied bartender produce 23 year old single malt Macallan whisky. He brought white wine to the lovely Stephanie, now surrounded by a contingent of classmate and spouses. Stephanie introduced him and wandered off to mingle and socialize. The assault on the Major began immediately.
“I understand one of your ancestors may have been in Virginia during the early 1600s,” the lady ringleader purred. Peabody simple pleaded guilty. “I cannot understand why those people brought firearms with them,” she added. One of Linda’s friends took up the cudgel. “Yes. It was the start of the gun culture that brought this nation so much misery. All the death and destruction we suffer began with your ancestors.” Another confederate jumped in. “If those people had left their guns in England we would have become a non-violent society. We’d still have the beautiful passenger pigeon, the Great Auk and lots of interesting animals and things.”
Peabody’s expression didn’t change. On the surface, at least, he remained placid and restrained, conditions requiring some effort on his part. His thoughts were quite different. “Now I understand why that sneaky attorney ducked out of this affair and shanghaied me into it. He’ll pay for this.”
Linda’s husband got into the act. “You kill things, don’t you?’
That did it. The Major realized he had been targeted for abuse. He decided to respond in full attack mode. His first reaction was to say: “Yes, and occasionally I get violent,” and then poke the man in the nose. He knew the lovely Stephanie wouldn’t approve, so he pursued a different course.
“I’ve always admired that painting of your own Massachusetts Pilgrim fathers. You know, the one showing them walking through the snow to attend church. One of them is carrying a firearm. Did you ever wonder why he carried that long gun? Could it have been for protection?
“One of the men who came over on the Mayflower- a fellow named Nathaniel Morton - was the colony’s Clerk. He wrote a book entitled “New England Memoirs”. He tells about the first time the Indians attacked the colonists. It was December 8, 1620 - just twenty-seven days after the May-flower sighted land. Mile Standish and a few others of those Massachusetts Johnny-come-latelys were looking for a place to build Plymouth. If they hadn’t been able to run through a shower of arrows, get back to their shallop and retrieve their matchlocks, they all would have been killed.”
Linda, her confederates and the others who followed to watch the fun didn’t expect this kind of rebuttal Unaccustomed to being challenged, they looked at each other and wondered if they should engage in debate. Before any of his politically correct adversaries could speak, Peabody continued his attack.
“King Philip’s War is another interesting event. It occurred some fifty years after your Pilgrim Fathers landed. The French provided the Algonquians with modern flintlock rifles. The colonist militias still fought with matchlocks and pikes. About a third of the English settlers were killed during that two year war. Every English settlement west of Concord was destroyed. It could have been the end of the English in New England.
“As near as I can discover, King Philip’s War was the first time we learned of the necessity to maintain an up-to-date well armed and well trained militia. Even today, some people have a hard time understanding a heavy price must be paid if we let our army go to pot. Do you agree?”
No one answered.
Peabody was on a roll. “Of course, you all remember the First Thanksgiving Dinner. Do you think the food was brought over on the Mayflower? Some Pilgrims with matchlock firearms went into the woods and came back with venison and turkeys and ducks. Undoubtedly, they provided many other meals for the Pilgrims. Without firearms the colonists might have starved to death.
“Your ancestors came to a wilderness and created a nation. It couldn’t have been done without guns. In 1775, when someone whose genes you now carry stood on a bridge at Concord and faced the British army, he carried the musket that usually hung over the fireplace in his home. History would be different if he carried a stick.”
Peabody had said enough. “This certainly is a wonderful reunion,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “It’s a pleasure to be with people who provide their guests with fine single malt whiskey.” He turned, walked, alone, toward the bar and repeated his promise: That lawyer is going to pay for this.
The Spiney Pig
The dinner at Bookbinders was a strained and quiet affair. Major Nathaniel Peabody was sullen and barely able to disguise his petulance. I knew the reason for his ill-humor. It was the last day of the month and it was a Saturday. As usual, I had refused to give him his Spendthrift Trust remittance until the stroke of midnight. Therefore, Peabody’s arrival at the hunting camp in northern Wisconsin was delayed. Therefore, Peabody lost one full day of hunting. Therefore, Peabody directed his displeasure at me. Since he was uncomfortable, he was determined to make sure I, too, was uncomfortable.
At Bookbinders and, later, in the Major’s apartment as we awaited the magical time of 12:01 and the delivery of his Spendthrift Trust remittance, Peabody’s attitude improved by degrees in direct relationship to the degrees of discomfort he was able to engendered in me.
Major Peabody knows I am a city boy, uncomfortable in the swamps and forests where he and his hunting companions chase ducks and grouse and other dangerous birds and animals. Nevertheless, he insisted on dwelling upon the subjects he suspected would frighten me. His suspicions were correct.
He told a story about a pack of wolves surrounding a lone hunter’s evening, wilderness tent. He described the piercing, yellow/green eyes and the blood curdling snarls of the vicious predators as they circled in the edges of the darkness around the man’s tent. They waited until the ca
mpfire died down before attacking. Peabody took delight in describing the gore and bones the wolves left behind when they had finished their feast.
Then he informed me he would be hunting at the very same spot when I had to deliver his next Spendthrift Trust installment. Not satisfied with the tale of wolf horror, he described other dangers I might encounter when I had to visit his camp. He frightened me with stories of venomous late autumn white snakes, so well camouflaged by October snows that people would unwittingly tread upon them, only to be bitten and die terrible lingering deaths in the cold Wisconsin forests.
He told of hunters who disappeared in the woods near the same cabin, leaving behind nothing more than their hats on the carpet of leaves covering woodland quicksand deposits. Like the La Brea tar pits, the quicksand trapped and slowly dragged its victims down to suffocating death. He told of how he had recovered the body of a fellow hunter by carefully probing into the quicksand with a hay rake, piercing the sunken man’s rib cage and hauling him up to the light of day, but too late to save his life.
It was well after eleven o’clock when the Major asked me if I knew anything about porcupines. Of course, he wasn’t looking for an educational comment from me. (Doc Carmichael, one of the Major’s hunting friends, told me the animal was disagreeable, short tempered and armed with an arsenal of sharp needles. He said it would shoot the needles at me if I ever got close to one of them. I don’t know how far the needles will fly, but if I ever encounter a porcupine I will stay at least fifteen feet from it - make that twenty feet from it.)
I answered the Major’s question with an entirely truthful statement. “More than I care to know,” I said and attempted to direct the conversation in a more pleasant direction by adding, “I’ll bet you come across some very interesting wild flowers during your hunts.”