The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  Honest Carl didn’t hunt. Shorty was sure he had no idea of the value of an animal bred for the specialized purpose of hunting birds. Shorty happily paid a thousand dollars for the dog. By the time he paid for a collar and a bell, flea powder (a lot of flea powder) and various veterinary bills to have the animal de-wormed and de-ticked and de-manged, Shorty still had enough left to lay in a nice supply of Dago Red and pay his own doctor bill. (Shorty got a bad case of the mange from the dog.)

  The attempts to train the mixed breed dog were not entirely successful. It may have been the Dissa’s blood line. The Japanese dog’s ancestors had been bred to run into and around fields and paddies. The Dissa had been developed for the purpose of chasing hungry cranes and storks out of the growing rice. To perform that function, the Dissa was a lone hunter, conditioned to protect large expanses of land. The presence of a hunter to direct the dog’s movements was unnecessary. As a result, the dog could not be trained to hunt within the range of a 12 ga. shotgun. Shorty claimed it couldn’t be trained to hunt within the range of a .308 deer rifle.

  That was not the dog’s only problem. Throughout the centuries, the Dissa had been taught to find and flush cranes and storks. Shorty’s dog would hunt only long legged birds - like Sand Hill Cranes, Cattle Egrets and Herons. Moreover, the dog would not hold a point. It consistently frightened the cranes and egrets into flight long before Shorty could get close enough to fire a shot. The dog could not be trained to hold a bird until the hunter arrived.

  Nevertheless, Shorty persevered. He continued his unsuccessful attempts to train the dog until his supply of Dago Red had been completely consumed. Then he admitted failure and sold the dog. Shorty believes the dog’s new owner changed its name to CUMHEARYEWNOGUDSOB. At least, that’s what the new owner called out whenever he tried to get the dog to come back to somewhere close to shotgun range.

  Shorty’s experiment proves any attempts to produce a hunting dog by cross breeding an English Pointer with a Japanese Dissa will produce nothing more than a Dissa Pointer.

  The Madness of Peabody

  It was after five in the afternoon when I visited Major Nathaniel Peabody. I intended to invite him to an evening at his favorite German restaurant. “Oh, it’s you,” he said as he opened the door and ushered me into his apartment. Paying no further attention to me, he returned to his wing backed chair and began to act in a peculiar manner.

  Without a single word or any kind or acknowledgment of my presence, he drew his lips into a small open circle, sucked air through his nose and began to snort. “I can’t seem to get it right,” he said abstractly and then repeated those strange sounds.

  I became alarmed. To say the least, his behavior was preposterous. Some rational explanation would, I assumed, be forthcoming. I sat, patiently waiting for that explanation, while he continued his snorting, changing the pitch from tenor to bass and the rhythm from staccato to slow funereal phrasings, but always shaking his head in dissatisfaction. “I just can’t seem to get it right,” he repeated aloud.

  “Can’t seem to get what just right?” I ventured. Apparently my question didn’t register with him. He paid no attention to it. Instead, the Major glanced in my general direction and said: “The sun has been over the yard arm for a goodly time, young man.” This was ‘Peabodyese’. It translates into English as: “I believe it is time for a dollop of the single malt.”

  I went to the kitchen, retrieved the liter of The Macallan from its hiding place beneath the sink and was in the act of getting ice cubes from the refrigerator when I again heard a series of disgusting grunts coming from the living room. It was disconcerting.

  What was even more disturbing was Peabody’s refusal to accept my invitation to dinner. He said he was too busy. Busy doing what? Frightening me with his dreadful noises? I’ve known the man for years and he seldom, if ever, neglected a chance to enjoy ox joint and sauerkraut - to be followed by cigars and libations. Something was terribly wrong, but I was afraid to ask him about the reason for the snorts periodically punctuating the rest of our late-afternoon conversations.

  I could not help but recall my experiences in the practice when I was newly out of law school. Clients were hard to find and I was happy to have any customers - even when it meant representing poor, confused creatures at Commitment Hearings. Recalling the bizarre actions of those clients, I now wondered if Major Peabody might be losing his grip on reality. My concern about his state of mind led me to believe he needed help.

  After a sleepless night, I determined my course of action. I would seek the assistance of Doctor Carmichael. Though he was a medical doctor, I suspected he would be able to recommend a competent psychiatrist and, I hoped, assume the responsibility of convincing the Major to see him. I met with the doctor on the following morning.

  In answer to Doctor Carmichael’s question, I told him I suffered from no noxious disease and that it was the Major who needed help. The doctor sighed, shook his head and said: “I’m sorry. I will not go bail for him. You’re the attorney. You get him out of whatever mess he’s gotten into.”

  I hastened to assure him the police were not after Peabody. I told him I believed the Major might be taking leave of his senses. Doctor Carmichael removed his glasses, slowly shook his head and admitted he had long suspected this day would come.

  When I told him how the Major insisted on making those dreadful sounds, Carmichael asked if I had mentioned my concerns to Peabody. I answered in the negative and reported my fear of the possible reaction if, to put it bluntly, I told the Major I thought he was a nut case and in need of professional help.

  “That is, indeed, a risk,” the doctor agreed. “The medical journals have printed studies classifying reactions to such accusations. Some cuckoos calmly accept it as fact. Others immediately kill their spouses and expect me to get them off by giving evidence of their insanity. Of course, some deny it. Strangely enough, some of them consider their nuttiness to be a qualification for public office. The House of Representatives and the Senate are full of them. Just look at the ridiculous gun control legislation they propose.

  “You were wise to keep your suspicions to yourself. I’ll take over from here. In two days, Peabody and I are leaving for a duck hunt in Florida. I promise I will carefully observe him and take appropriate steps if involuntary commitment is indicated.”

  * * * * *

  Their truck was parked in the pines on the adjacent higher ground. It was mid-morning and the two men were walking from the edge of the Florida marsh. Major Peabody carried the gunny sacks of decoys. Doc Carmichael followed carrying the shotguns and a bag slung over his shoulder. It was heavy. It contained their daily limit of ducks. The dog didn’t carry anything.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, Nate. Whatever possessed you to do it?”

  “Elementary, my dear Doctor. It is simply a result of my keen observation skills, my unrivalled imagination and my superior intelligence.”

  “Please don’t continue. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “All right. Do your best to concentrate and I’ll try to explain it. When all is said and done, the primary motivating forces controlling all forms of life are food and sex.”

  “Right.”

  “Usually we can’t hunt during the bird mating seasons.”

  “Right.”

  “That means we must rely on food to attract ducks.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve hunted turkeys on Tom Rosenow’s land in Wisconsin. Do you remember his automatic corn feeder and how the turkeys were conditioned to appear within minutes after it had gone off and scattered the corn around its base?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did the birds behave that way?”

  “Food?”

  Peabody shook his head in disbelief. “No, you idiot. If it were merely food, the turkeys would nest under the feeder and never move away from it. Search your defective memory for Pavlov’s experiment. The animal salivated when Pavlov rang a bell. The turkeys came to
Tom’s feeder when they heard the sound of the automatic feeding machine. It was the sound that told them the corn had been scattered.’

  “I see, but…”

  Peabody held up his hand, silencing the doctor, and continued his explanation. “For decades Clevis Dewlap and his Florida progenitors have owned this land and grown hogs on it for food and for a cash crop.”

  “So?”

  “They raised the hogs by turning them loose in the woods and letting them fend for themselves. It’s still a common practice. The hogs usually feed on acorns and other wild foodstuffs. In addition, some farmers will feed them corn to fatten them up. Clevis is one of them. He brings bags of corn down here and dumps them out next to the marsh. It’s where the hogs come for water. Clevis has no use for an automatic feeder. The ducks, therefore, have no machine-created whirring sound to advise them precisely when the corn has been put out for the hogs.”

  Carmichael captured the concept. “Aha,” he said. “I see. I see. That’s why you kept grunting and snorting. It’s the kind of sound a hog makes when it’s eating. Your snorting was a duck call. It told the ducks Clevis brought corn to the edge of the marsh and the hogs were eating it. That’s why they decoyed so well.”

  Peabody smiled.

  So did Carmichael. “Let’s not tell your lawyer,” he said. “We’ll keep him guessing. It will drive him nuts.”

  Genetics

  The end-of-the-month ritual was about to be observed. Major Nathaniel Peabody would be short of funds. I would come to his apartment. He would insult me and complain about the terms of his Spendthrift Trust. I would provide a dinner at Bookbinders. We’d return to his apartment to continue our conversations and enjoy an evening libation or two.

  The conversations with Major Peabody always concern subjects closely associated with shotgun hunting. They were matters in which I have a complete lack of experience, knowledge or interest. The word “conversation” is not entirely accurate. Peabody did the conversing. My own participation is limited. I am put in charge of listening and occasionally saying things like “How very interesting” or “I never thought of it that way” or “Do go on”.

  (Like Pavlov’s dog, I have also been conditioned to mix and deliver another single malt Scotch and water whenever I hear the Major clink the ice cubes in his empty glass.)

  I always hope Peabody will find a subject of more wide-spread, popular interest - some subject I could talk about - like recent Supreme Court decisions, or the taxation of revocable trusts agreements. It always proves to be a forlorn hope. The Major talks about dogs or shotguns or game birds and, from time to time, the unconstitutionality of Spendthrift Trusts and the need for a law providing for the incarceration of attorneys who prepare them.

  This time, when I arrived at his apartment, the Major’s greeting showed him to be in an unusually cheerful frame of mind.

  “Good afternoon, Counselor. I hope you’ve had a pleasant day keeping widows and orphans from enjoying the benefits of being trust beneficiaries. Come in. Sit. It’s a beautiful day.” It wasn’t a beautiful day. It was cold and gray and icy and windy.

  “You seem to be in good humor,” I observed.

  “I am, indeed,” he answered. “I’ve just finished reading an article about chickens. What an inspiring dissertation.” It looked like Peabody had selected the subject matter for the day’s educational lecture. I resigned myself to the ordeal.

  “Ah, Prairie Chickens,” I said in a failed attempt to show enthusiasm and then recounted the full extent of my knowledge of the bird. “I believe they were first described by Lewis and Clark during the Voyage of Discovery. I think they are found in western states. Can you tell me about them? Are you planning a hunting trip?”

  “No, no. no,” Peabody corrected. “You don’t understand. I don’t mean Prairie Chickens. I mean that lesser kind - Rhode Island Reds - Plymouth Rock Whites. You know. The kind that go cluck, cluck, cluck and lay eggs.”

  This was a peculiar departure from our time honored ritual. I wondered if the Major was ill or if the terrible weather had affected his mind. I decided to ignore his aberration, hoping it was no more than a temporary condition.

  I went to the kitchen, intending to calm him with a single malt Scotch and water. Peabody followed close behind me. He put his hand to his forehead, then waved both arms in the air and exclaimed “An epiphany, Counselor. An epiphany. Bless the scientists. Bless them all. What fantastic potentials.”

  “Chickens?” I questioned, in more than mild disbelief.

  “No. Not chickens, you idiot. Recombinant genetics.”

  “Oh, I understand,” I said, having no idea of what he was talking about.

  “I was bored silly,” the Major continued in lively tones. “This damned weather is so depressing. I tried to concentrate on duck hunting, but it was no use. I read an article claiming biologists can fool around with a chicken’s genes and produce a bird with four or six or even eight drumsticks. It’s a miraculous scientific achievement. It portends a future beyond my most optimistic projections.”

  Peabody surprised me. What a refreshing change. He was directing his attentions to the consideration of one of humanity’s most tragic problems. Finally, I could spend an evening engaging him in the serious discussion of a subject not directly associated with dogs or shotguns or hunting.

  “I see. I see,” I exclaimed with unfeigned enthusiasm. “You mean the world’s starvation problems can be minimized by producing chickens with eight legs. More food for the undernourished through genetic manipulations. The potential is, indeed, mind boggling. What an interesting subject…”

  “No, you don’t see,” Peabody interrupted. “I’m thinking of something much, much more important. If those marvelous genetic engineers can add legs to a chicken, just think of what they can do for duck hunters. They could give me an extra pair of arms.”

  I’m afraid my jaw dropped. Peabody paid no attention to my reaction.

  “How often have far away ducks circled my blind, waiting for the time when, cold and shivering, I hold my mug in one hand and, with the other, begin to pour coffee from the thermos? Consistently, this is the precise moment when the ducks will buzz my decoys, secure in the knowledge that I will pour hot coffee on my crotch - an act that always distracts me from picking up my shotgun and firing at them.

  “Revenge. Revenge,” he said through clenched teeth. “Once the scientists have fitted me with an extra set of arms, those damned ducks will pay for their insolence. When they buzz my decoys, I’ll be able to pick up my shotgun, drop a pair of them and, at the same time, fill my coffee mug without spilling a drop. They’ll be dead in the water before they know what hit them.”

  Then another thought occurred to him. He smiled and said: “Perhaps these magnificent scientists can steal a dog’s DNA, inject it into me and endow me the animal’s ability to smell.” The Major paused for a few seconds before he looked up and explained. “I don’t mean giving me the ability to smell like a dog after it has rolled in a dead fish or some equally odiferous material. I mean the dog’s ability to use its nose. It’s hundreds of times more sensitive than a human’s.”

  The Major was pleased by the prospects of recombinant genetics. He smiled as he discovered another benefit. “Just think of the advantage I’ll have. I won’t need a hunting dog. I’ll know where the grouse and pheasants are long before other hunters have so much as a suspicion. Oh, brave new world. Just think of it, Counselor. I can have the eye of an eagle, the hearing of a deer, the grouse’s ability to eat poisonous mushrooms.”

  The end-of-month ritual had not been disturbed. I took a sip of my Scotch and water and assumed my usual responsibilities. “How very interesting,” I said “Do go on.”

  Justice

  It was the evening of the last day of the month. I was in a grouse camp in the UP, prepared to deliver Major Nathaniel Peabody’s Spendthrift Trust remittance. For the benefit of the uninitiated, “UP” refers to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It’s a thinly po
pulated area and its inhabitants are called “Yoopers”.

  After a dinner of pan fried grouse, the Major and his three Yooper hunter friends retired to the other side of the combination kitchen/dining/recreation area of the cabin for libation and recreation. Of course, every one of the Yoopers knew I was a Philadelphia attorney and the conversation turned to matters jurisprudential.

  Major Peabody took no part in the discussion. He was occupied removing burrs, stick-tights and other unwanted clinging weed seeds from the long haired ears and withers of an English Pointer a/k/a Lothario. The dog sat next to him with muzzle laid on his lap and eyes closed, obviously enjoying the procedure which involved plenty of ear scratching.

  The Major had an ulterior motive. Since there were six men and only two dogs, each dog had to work with its owner and two other hunters. Peabody hoped Lothario would show his appreciation during the following day’s hunts by working close to him rather than ranging in front of all of the hunters.

  One of the Yoopers - the one called Pete - started the discussion. “How could they let that Hollywood celebrity off,” he asked me. “No question about it. He killed her. They should have found him guilty and hung him. The miserable SOB deserved it”

  “The jury found him Not Guilty and that was that.” I answered.

  “That was what comes when you put a stupid judge, an incompetent District Attorney and a biased jury together,” another Yooper, Charlie, explained.

  “Stupid judges and incompetent District Attorneys?” I questioned, surprised by the man’s accusation.

  “Oh, yes,” Pete answered. “I suspect it’s a universal problem. It certainly is a common condition up here in the UP. You see,” he explained, “some young attorney, fresh from law school, comes here and hangs out his shingle. Of course, he doesn’t know much. He can’t find the handles on the court house door and runs the risk of starving to death for lack of business.