by Galen Winter
“Jim. Do you remember the time we were hunting grouse up near Watersmeet?”
“Yes, I remember it.” Jim couldn’t forget it. Tom wouldn’t let him. Every time they met he was sure to tell the same story. Each time the story was embellished a bit more until neither of them recalled exactly what had happened.
“Your dog. Sparkle, chased up a bird and it flew off to my right, dodging around the popple trees. It was a long and difficult shot - I’d say about fifty yards - but I tried it anyway. The bird took a ninety degree turn, flew through some balsams and disappeared into a swamp. You remember, Jim?”
“I remember,” Jim said quietly. He knew what was coming.
“Well, Jim came over and took great delight in giving me a three minute lecture on wasting shells, shooting at out-of-range birds and, by missing, disappointing his dog. Just as he was getting into a full barrage of abuse, Sparkle came out of the swamp with the grouse in its mouth. I’ll never forget it.”
“You’ll never let me forget it,” Jim muttered. He could have told an entirely different version of Tom’s story, but would have run a serious risk of violating the Hunter’s Code of Ethics. Shotgun hunters tend to be polite fellows. They allow the story teller some leeway with regard to absolute truth. They expect a certain amount of poetic license and will accept the accuracy of a fellow hunter’s story even if such acceptance requires a super active imagination.
“It doesn’t take much to knock down a Ruffed Grouse,” Jim said. He was anxious to change the subject. He knew Tom was about to embark on an extended declaration of his justifiable pride and recognized accuracy in the firing of shotguns.
“A single 7½ chilled BB will do the trick. Sometimes they’ll fly after being hit. I remember one time I was hunting with Peabody in Forest County. The Major raised a bird. He shot and it flew away. We both thought he missed it. I walked for about another fifty feet and heard something in the branches above me. I looked up in time to see the Major’s grouse drop out of the tree. It fell at my feet and it was dead, dead, dead. Isn’t that right, Major?”
“Absolutely,” Major Peabody lied. “I remember it just as if it were yesterday.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Bruce Sim, the third hunter, confirmed, signaling he was about to tell some questionable tale and expect Jim, in turn, to back him up. “But, sometimes a single BB won’t bring them down. I was hunting near the South Branch of the Oconto on opening day. Lots of birds around. I had a limit and was back in camp before noon. I didn’t go out with the guys in the afternoon. I decided to give them a treat and cook some grouse for dinner.
“I made a Hollandaise sauce for the broccoli, baked some potatoes, chilled a few bottles of Liebfraumilch and then went to work on the grouse. The meal was delicious. Everyone was in a pleasant mood and things were going well until Doc Carmichael bit down on a BB and broke a tooth. Then things got exciting. There were threats of lawsuits and million dollar damage claims for pain and suffering. There was talk about avoiding the lawsuit by shooting Doc Carmichael and leaving his body in the woods for the Ravens.
“I wasn’t the least bit worried. When things began to get out of hand, I reminded them I was not the kind of person who would ruin meat. I always shoot grouse in the head. The men were quickly convinced the grouse in question must have been shot during the previous season. It carried the BB inside it for an entire year.”
The three other hunters sat silently considering the story. After a few moments they nodded, agreeing the story was probably accurate. Then everyone looked to the Major. It was his turn. Peabody surveyed his companions and began by quoting Shakespeare.
“Hamlet said: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ There are more exceptional events involving the Ruffed Grouse than the uninitiated can conceive. Still, those exceptional events do occur. Some years ago, the Michigan Ruffed Grouse Season opened on the day after the close of the Trout Season. I got to John Schmid’s cabin the day before hunting grouse was legal. A note informed me John was in town looking for supplies.
“The cabin was near the Tamarack River and John left his fly rod on the porch. To use up time, I picked up the rod and walked to the stream. I was back in the cabin when John returned. When I presented him with a Ruffed Grouse, John accused me of poaching. I suppose, technically, I may have fractured some Michigan Fish and Game Regulation, but, given the circumstances, I don’t believe any U P jury would convict me.
“I explained what had happened. I told John I did not shoot the bird, but, can you believe it, he did not believe me. He thought I shot it or, perhaps, it committed suicide by flying into my car. I carefully skinned the bird. There were no bruises on the body. Neither were there any BB holes. The only mark was a deep gash on the bird’s neck.
“Gentlemen, that bird flew across the Tamarack River just as I was in the middle of a back cast. My fly hooked its neck and broke it.”
Peabody stopped and looked at his friends. They were quiet. They wouldn’t look him in the eye. To bolster his story, the Major added: “I was using a Hair Wing Adams on a three pound test leader.” It didn’t help. One by one the men got up and walked out into the heavy rain. The dogs, with heads down and tails between their legs, followed them.
The Future is Before Us
When the lovely Stephanie asked Major Peabody to attend one of her soirees, he said he’d be delighted to attend. He wouldn’t be delighted to attend. Peabody detests those kinds of social event, but he likes the lovely Stephanie. In addition, the lovely Stephanie’s invitation meant he could exchange his accustomed late-in-the-month breakfast, lunch and dinner diet of boxed macaroni and cheese for the goodies that would grace her hors d’oeuvre table.
Peabody knew the invitation also meant he would be expected to mingle with people who didn’t hunt. Their know-ledge of dogs was limited to the Pekinese, the Shi Tzu, and other small, hysterical, disgusting, ankle biting non-hunting breeds. He was willing to undergo the ordeals of conversation with those people only because he expected he would be able to dull his sensibilities with the aged single malt Scotch usually accompanying the lovely Stephanie’s parties.
I provided the Major’s transportation to and from the affair. From the moment we arrived, I knew Peabody’s evening would not be easy. There was no single malt hidden among the bottles of red and white wine set out on the buffet.
There was, however, a plentitude of conversation covering a spectrum of subjects in which the Major had no interest whatsoever. His body language clearly signaled his tedium and his discomfort. I kept an eye on him, intending to quickly intervene in the event I saw signs of impending social disaster. In deference to the lovely Stephanie, the Major behaved himself fairly well. He made only two tiny missteps.
A tweedy birdwatcher approached Peabody and asked him to identify a visitor to her backyard feeder. She described it as having a yellow tail and catching flies. I don’t believe she understood what the Major meant when, after thinking for a moment, with some authority he told her it was a Chinese Outfielder. She said it must be a rare species and she would look it up in her bird book.
When Peabody tried to enter a discussion about genetic engineering, I tried to save him from embarrassment by saying I, too, knew a Mr. Gene Splicing. However, the Major showed more than a casual interest in the conversation that followed. He became fascinated by the subject of DNA manipulation and genetic engineering.
Later, as I drove him back to his apartment, Peabody’s enthusiasm was obvious. “We live in an amazing time, my boy,” he bubbled. “For centuries scientists have wasted their time trying to transmute lesser metals into gold, attempting to send a man to Mars and torturing humanity by inventing the computer and the internet with its cookies and pop-ups. Now, for the first time in the memory of man, they appear to be performing a valuable service for the human race.
“Just think of it. They are able to sneak into the DNA helix, grab the bits that produce undesirable characteristics
and then replace them with ones that will correct Mother Nature’s flagrant errors. Do you know what that means?” he asked. “Within our lifetime we will see grains engineered to grow in both the heat of the warmest climates and in the snows of the coldest winters.”
“Yes, Major,” I agreed. “It is truly amazing. After years of experiment, scientists can create seeds able to resist attacking disease. It is an accomplishment of enormous import not only for those who grow grains but also to those who consume them. Larger harvests and more food can eliminate starvation from the face of the earth.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so,” Peabody said, dismissing my observation. “I hadn’t thought of that modest collateral advantage. I was concentration on the more important benefits.” The Major raised his eyes and looked off into the future. “I see pheasants thriving in fields of corn growing in the hot Arizona desert. I see them surviving and growing fat on corn growing out of the winter snow on the frigid North Dakota/Canada border.
“I see hearty wild rice quickly reproducing to fill waterways. I see vigorous duck celery and duck potato plants designed to crowd out lily pad congestion and restore lakes and streams to vibrant waterfowl habitat. I see clouds of ducks flying into those excellent re-established feeding grounds, renewing pass shooters’ faith in the existence of a Supreme Being.
“I see foxes engineered to eschew the eating of pheasants. I see them developing a diet consisting exclusively of rodents. I see future Pine Martens losing their interest in Ruffed Grouse and their eggs. I see them subsisting solely on the meat of dead porcupines.
“I see flocks of starlings descending upon the springtime fields and forests where they will eat huge volumes of wood ticks. I see wood ticks being listed on the official endangered species lists. I see the Sierra Club disintegrating over the internal struggle of whether or not they will expend their treasury to protect the tick. In short, my young barrister friend, I see a bright and shining future.”
I’ll admit I was a bit miffed by the Major’s insensitivity to the problem of starvation.
“I don’t share your confidence in the abilities of the scientific community,” I told him. “A miscalculation in some university laboratory could result in the mutating of a virus, changing it from one that causes nothing more than the common sniffles into one becoming a primary cause of death. Some mad scientists could create a species of huge ravenous mosquito unaffected by Deet laden sprays and able to remove an man’s entire blood supply with a single feeding.”
“There,” I said to myself, “that ought to give him something to think about.” The Major, however, would not be dissuaded. “Pish and Tosh,” he snorted. “Outdoorsmen have been fighting mosquitoes for centuries. Malaria and Yellow Fever couldn’t stop us from producing the long list of achievements we have given to mankind.”
“Long list of achievements?” I asked myself. “Whatever is he talking about?” Peabody must have noticed my expression of surprise and disbelief. He merely looked at me and said: “For one thing, you wouldn’t be enjoying steaks or pork chops it hunters hadn’t weaned Homo erectus from a diet of roots and nuts and berries.”
“Scientists might start out by splicing the DNA of grains,” I countered, “but it wouldn’t be long before they’d be playing around with Homo sapiens. Don’t be too quick in your unconditioned support of genetic engineering, Major. Once the genetic genie is loose it will be impossible to control.
“Mary Shelly’s tale of Doctor Frankenstein may be less of the fiction than we have heretofore imagined,” I told him, “That good doctor’s intentions may have been praiseworthy but, before you get too carried away, remember he produced a homicidal maniac. Lord knows what will happen when Doctor Frankenstein’s modern day counterparts start fooling around with human DNA. Personally, I don’t look forward to a race of people who have two heads or three arms.”
“Don’t dismiss human genetic engineering,” Peabody continued. “The New World monkeys have prehensile tails. Tails are handy things to have. They can act as a rudder when you swim. If bow hunters’ DNA was programmed to give them tails, they could use them to hold onto branches when they were up in their trees stands. Fewer of them would be injured by falling out of the trees.
“A moment’s thought will produce hundred of examples of good work the genetic scientist will be able to accomplish by tinkering with the human being. The world will be a much better place after they have identified and removed that part of the DNA chain producing the traits universally shared by used car salesmen, politicians, Trust attorneys and other con artist miscreants.”
At that moment we arrived at the Major’s apartment building and I was spared from what I was sure would be one of the Major’s diatribes aimed at my profession.
Shorty’s Story
Major Nathaniel Peabody is convinced the primary problem facing the nation is not represented by the threat of terrorists, by crooked bankers and stockbrokers, or by liberals and other felons. He contends it is the presence of insane contract provisions limiting a beneficiary’s access to Spendthrift Trust funds.
A survey of the Major’s hunting associates shows the majority of them believe the country’s greatest danger is the United States Congress. Closely following are the large percentage of hunters who are convinced the most important question requiring the Republic’s attention is: Which breed is the best bird hunting dog. Shorty Powell has struggled with that question for years.
Like many in the Upper Michigan, Shorty is an avid hunter, fisherman, out-of-doors-man and practitioner of what is locally known as The Powell Program. (The Powell Program consists of two stages. In the Spring, one pawns his deer rifle and buys trout and lake fishing equipment. In the Fall, one sells his fishing equipment and gets his deer rifle out of hock.)
Shorty is often among the unemployed. He is often unemployed because employment gets in the way of his more important endeavors. It’s a matter of getting one’s priorities in proper order. Who, Shorty asks, should go into the woods to cut pulp when the trout season is open? Who, he asks, should be expected to punch in at the saw mill time clock when the deer season is open? Can any rational human being avoid quitting and taking up a shotgun when Ruffed Grouse hunting is legal? Shorty’s answers are: “No one”, “No one,” and “Of course, not.”
When the government’s Stimulus Package was first unveiled, Shorty was skeptical. He wondered if many of the proposed uses of taxpayer money were really necessary expenses - like the hundreds of thousand of dollars awarded to study tattoo removal in California, school bullying in Montana, grape genetics in New York and swine odor in Iowa. He doubted such spending was designed to bring the country out of recession. He harbored the strange suspicion the purpose of the Stimulus Package was to fund projects designed to pay off politicians’ cronies.
Then Shorty had an epiphany. The government was about to spend a kazillion dollars. Even if one is silly enough to presume Congress has an interest in controlling and accounting for such spending, there is no way it can be done. Washington is embarking on a program of throwing basketfuls of money into the air. As it floats down to earth, anyone can run out into the street and grab some of it.
Shorty remembered an axiom his father told him: When the gravy train is rolling, get aboard. Why shouldn’t at least some of that government money be used for a worthwhile purpose? Why not use it to study hunting dogs? Shorty Powell went to his friend, Major Nathaniel Peabody, for advice on how to proceed. The Major supported Shorty’s idea and told him to contact his congressman.
Shorty was unable to speak directly with his House of Representatives politician. The only time the fellow ever left Washington D C to visit his Congressional District was when he was running for re-election and wanted his picture taken in a trout stream to show people he was a true outdoorsman and environmentalist. Many of his constituents had threatened his life. On the few occasions when he visited his District, the Congressman’s bodyguards keep everyone far away from him. He was never within the range of
their deer rifles.
Shorty wrote a nice letter to the fellow. He referred to tree grafting. It allowed people to retire in Florida and get oranges, grapefruit and lemons from the same tree. He recalled animal cross breeding producing bossy cows with more butter fat per square quart of milk and beef cattle with more protein per bale of hay. He pointed out the improvements in the science of horse breeding. It resulted in the construction of race tracks bringing hundreds of thousands of dollars into bookies’ bank accounts.
With appropriate government stimulus funding, Shorty wrote, he would embark on a scientific study of cross-bred dogs. His study, he claimed, would produce similar long range benefits for mankind. Without further explanation, he asked for a thousand dollar grant and promised to use the grant to alleviate Upper Michigan’s terrible unemployment problem and strengthen the local economy.
Shorty told the truth. If he got the grant, his project would give him a paying job. He would spend every cent of the grant for the supplies and other items essential to his investigations. Those essential items included: A supply of Dago Red, a dog, a dog collar, a bell, dog food, shotgun shells, a new hunting jacket and a supply of Dago Red.
Shorty’s request for government money was quickly processed. The approval notification advised him of a typographic error in his application. Inadvertently, he typed “$1,000” when, obviously, he meant “$5.000”.
When Shorty received the check for $6,000, he immediately embarked on his study. He bought a dog from Honest Carl Wussow. Honest Carl was a local used car dealer who had taken the dog in trade as part payment for an auto-mobile. Honest Carl told Shorty the dog was part English Pointer and part Japanese Dissa.
Shorty knew the Pointer was a good hunter, but he had never heard of a Japanese Dissa. Honest Carl told him the Dissa was used in Japan to find and flush storks from rice fields and sushi groves and other Japanese type places where the birds occurred. With both English and Japanese hunting dog blood lines, Shorty guessed the animal would be a natural-born hunter.
