The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  When he asked Doc Fisher: “How much for two”, the vet immediately became suspicious. He knew Karl was tighter than the credit manager at Moskin’s used clothing store. He suspected Karl would bring his friends’ dogs to the clinic if he gave him a simple cheaper-by-the-dozen quote. So he answered: “The second test gets a fifty percent discount, but you can’t bring any dogs you don’t personally own.”

  The vet knew Karl owned only one dog, Rocky. He thought he had outsmarted the accountant. Well, he was wrong. Karl appeared with Rocky and demanded two tests - one for the dog and one for himself. Doc Fischer had to keep up his side of the bargain.

  In the end, the vet got the best of Karl.

  Doc Fisher added a note to the Report when it came back from the laboratory showing neither blood samples showed signs of Lyme’s disease, The note said: ‘The dog named Karl has incipient Distemper and should receive immediate attention before it progresses to an uncontrollable state’.

  Karl had to pay Doc Fischer eighty dollars to get four distemper shots.”

  Carpenter Ants

  It was October. Paul Cowdery, a Minneapolis attorney, learned of large numbers of illegal migrants planning to surreptitiously cross the Canadian border and settle in and around the hunting property he owned in northern Minnesota. He asked Major Nathaniel Peabody and Doc Carmichael to help him and two friends defend his property from the invasion of the undocumented woodcock reportedly in the process of coming south from Manitoba.

  The first evening found the five men seated around the cabin poker table. “Your deal, Counselor,” said Major Peabody, a bit glumly. His enthusiasm was limited because no woodcock were found during either the morning or the afternoon hunt. It was also limited because the poker game was approaching its end and he was over forty dollars beneath ground zero.

  The lawyer finished scooping up the pot, gathered the cards and began to shuffle the deck, very slowly. He enjoyed shuffling slowly when Peabody was behind. He knew the Major would be anxious to get a new hand and a new opportunity to recover losses. The slow shuffle would irritate him and perhaps interfere with his concentration.

  “Five Card Stud,” the attorney announced as he began to give each player a face down card. Then he paused, just before giving one to the Major. He looked at him and inquired: “Peabody, do you know what’s good for Carpenter ants?” He quickly amended his question. “I mean, do you know what’s bad for them. I don’t want to encourage them. I want to kill them.” The Major answered the question with two words. “Deal, Counselor.”

  “Carpenter ants?” Jeff Campbell repeated. Jeff was a dentist. He couldn’t shoot worth a tinker’s dam, but he was a popular member of the hunting group. He was an accomplished camp cook. “They’re destructive little creatures, if I recall correctly.”

  The lawyer gave out a few cards and, after a quick glance at the Major for signs of annoyance, he stopped, placed the deck on the table and said: “The word ‘destructive’ doesn’t begin to describe them.”

  Doc Carmichael got into the act with: “Carpenter ants have digestive tracts that can handle cellulose. They eat a lot of wood. They’re like termites, but termites don’t come this far north.”

  “Deal,” Peabody muttered. The slow deal continued, again stopping just before the Major got his second card.

  “Well,” the lawyer said to no one in particular, “I’ve found some of them here in the cabin. I scatter Diazinon crystals outside the place, but the Carpenter ants keep coming back. It’s downright discouraging.”

  “They’ll destroy your cabin if you don’t attend to them,” Doc Carmichael’s warned. He peeked at his hole card after getting a Queen face up. (“If he had a Queen in the hole, he probably would have remembered it,” Peabody thought.) Out loud he said: “Deal,” and the lawyer continued distributing the cards - very slowly.

  The Major was well aware of the lawyer’s ploy. He knew the slow dealing was meant to throw him off his game. It succeeded in irritating him. Oh, how he wanted revenge. He prayed the Poker Gods would give him the opportunity to make the attorney pay for his impertinence, but this was not the hand.

  The fifth man at the table was Dudley Huff. He was a local timber man and knew the woods. More importantly, he knew where grouse and woodcock were apt to be. “That’s the trouble with Diazinon,” he said. “It wears out. What you need is chlordane. It’ll last forever. Spray some of it around and if an ant crawls over it five years from now, he’s a dead ant.” He looked at his cards. “I believe my Ace is worth fifty cents”.

  Carmichael followed and Peabody folded. Jeff mucked his cards, saying: “The trouble with chlordane is its long life. It doesn’t degrade and people claim it will give you cancer. The government won’t allow you to use it for Carpenter ants, but, I’m told, they’ve made an exception in the case of termites.” The attorney, Peabody noticed, paid attention to the Diazinon/chlordane chatter. Without bothering to look at his hole card, the attorney absently added a chip to the pot.

  “Sounds like a typical government operation,” Peabody said. “They’ll allow you to die of cancer if you have termites, but won’t allow you to die of it if you have Carpenter ants. When I was a lad in Virginia, it was before the Age of Chemicals. We didn’t have chlordane, but we certainly did have termites. We had a natural method for terminally discouraging them. I understand it was used back in pre Civil-War days when the land was a working plantation. I’m quite sure the method was brought over from Africa.”

  The Major succeeded in capturing the attorney’s attention. Diazinon didn’t work to the lawyer’s satisfaction. Chlordane would, but its use was both illegal and dangerous to the health. If there were a legal, safe and environmentally friendly way to permanently polish off the Carpenter ants, now busily engaged in eating his cabin, Cowdery meant to discover it. Major Peabody, he thought, might know of such a method. He dealt at a normal pace, paying little attention to either the cards or to the betting.

  As he distributed the fourth cards, his eyes and thoughts were focused on the Major. Carmichael showed a Queen and little else. Dudley had an Ace. The lawyer showed a pair of tens, but, apparently, he wasn’t aware of it. Dudley bet his Ace, Carmichael raised and the lawyer contributed more chips to the growing pot. He was preoccupied with Peabody’s termite killing information and looking forward to ridding his cabin of the threat from the Carpenter ants.

  “You say you had a way of killing termites?”

  “We did, indeed.”

  “For good?”

  “Yes, it was a very successful way of wiping them out.” Peabody rattled his ice cubes. The lawyer laid the deck on the table and began to reach for the Major’s glass, intending to re-fill it himself. Jeff beat him to the punch and Peabody continued his termite talk.

  “Years later,” he said, “when I was hunting in Africa, I found the natives using a similar, if not the same, system. They eradicated whole colonies of termites. And you know how many termites there are in Africa. Huge, ugly stalagmites full of them.”

  “Do you think the system could kill Carpenter ants?”

  “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t. I’m sure it would be just as effective as it is with termites.”

  During the conversation, the attorney automatically dropped chips into the pot. When the final call was made, he looked at his hand for the first time. He dropped. He didn’t have enough to compete in the face of a bet and a raise. Doc Carmichael did have a hole card Queen. His ladies carried the day. The attorney didn’t seem to mind.

  Peabody gave no indication of volunteering to divulge his secret. Perhaps, the lawyer thought, I might give him a little nudge. “Major”, he said, as he passed the deck to Carmichael, “I’d give fifty dollars to learn how they killed termites.”

  “I’m sure I can dig it up somewhere, Counselor. I’ll send it to you together with all necessary instructions as soon as I get back to Philadelphia. And,” he added, pointedly, “it will not be occasioned by the delays some of us experience while wai
ting for the cards to be dealt.”

  * * * * *

  Back in Philadelphia, Major Peabody chuckled as he considered the Minnesota hunt. The lawyer’s fifty dollars covered his poker losses. True to his word, the Major allowed no delay in sending him the guaranteed ant killer program. He addressed and packaged the small parcel after adding the promised instructions:

  Place Carpenter ant on Block A.

  Place Block B on top of Carpenter ant.

  Squeeze blocks together.

  All About Loons

  Doctor Carmichael invited Major Nathaniel Peabody to join him and a group of Philadelphia hunters on a five day quail hunt at a posh game farm in southern Georgia.

  Unfortunately, the hunt was scheduled for the twenty-third to the twenty eighth day of the month. Unfortunately, Major Peabody, in his usual profligate manner, had managed to spend practically all of his monthly income and didn’t have the money needed to fund the expedition. Tragically (from his point of view) he had been unable to convince me to give him an advance payment from the Peabody Spendthrift Trust.

  Doctor Carmichael was well aware of Major Peabody’s love of Georgia quail hunting. The Doctor and Peabody were good friends, but that didn’t stop either one from tormenting the other. As soon as he returned to Philadelphia, Carmichael immediately visited Peabody.

  In detail, he reported the comfort of the game farm’s lodging, the competence of its staff, the excellence of its culinary facilities, the perfection of the dogs and the quality of the substantial quail population. He punctuated his narrative with phrases like: “Too bad you weren’t there, Major,” “You would have enjoyed it, Major,” “You missed the best quail hunt of the century, Major” and “Sorry you couldn’t make it, Major.”

  At Carmichael’s hands, Peabody suffered through a 21st century version of the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. The Major’s reaction to losing an opportunity to participate in a great hunt can be imagined only by those who understand his obsession with bird hunting. Peabody’s other reactions, however, could easily be predicted. He didn’t blame himself for his own incorrigible lack of financial prudence. He blamed me and displayed his ire on the following day - the last day of the month.

  During the dinner at Bookbinders - the one I customarily provide on the evening before the delivery of his Trust fund remittance - Major Peabody’s conversation dealt with subjects calculated to disturb me. He told tales of vicious bears, poisonous snow snakes, man eating wolves, quill throwing porcupines, scorpions and venomous spiders. He succeeded in scaring the hell out of me. Now, as I tried to enjoy a libation in his apartment while awaiting the stroke of midnight, he began castigating both me and my profession.

  After a discourse intended to convince me Jack the Ripper was a 19th century London trust attorney, the Major rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass. It was his unspoken order for another of the same. As I walked to the kitchen to prepare a re-fill, the Major informed my retreating back: “I believe the Bible warns trust attorneys never to tell the truth, claiming that if they do so just once, people will expect them to do it again.”

  I did my best to hide it, but I was annoyed and irritated. I did not look forward to the next two hours. I knew Peabody would spend every second of it attacking me. Then I noticed a pamphlet on the Major’s breakfast table. It was entitled All About Loons. It contained information collected by the Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute at Northland College and was printed by the Endangered Resources Fund as its Publication # ER-006 85. Apparently, Peabody had embarked on a study of Loons.

  I felt like a man, drowning in the ocean, who suddenly discovers a lifeline being thrown from an approaching Coast Guard Cutter. If Loons were Peabody’s current enthusiasm, it should be easy to shift the subject matter of his conversation from denigration of the legal profession to rhapsodizing about the Common Loon.

  Here was an opportunity to change the subject. I could take his mind off quail and his missed opportunity as well as his immediate obsession with castigating me. As I mixed another brace of single malt Scotch and waters I perused the pamphlet and, with lifted spirits, returned to the living room.

  “I see you have been studying the Loon,” I said, handing him both the publication and his refreshed libation. “Fascinating bird, the Common Loon,” I continued. “This pamphlet says it has developed a vocabulary. It wails when it becomes separated from its chicks or calls for its mate. It hoots to show curiosity. It yodels to show aggression and it uses a tremolo call when it has been disturbed. Amazing! Don’t you think that’s remarkable?”

  “There is some interesting information contained in the publication,” Peabody admitted as he picked up the document. “However, it raises more questions than it answers.” The Major reached for his glasses and opened the pamphlet. “For example, here on the second page we are told: ‘Both air and land pollution has decreased the Loon’s chance for survival.’

  “That fact, by itself, should come as no surprise, but on the third page we are informed: ‘It is impossible to determine the sex of a Loon without observing its internal organs’. This is fascinating information. Of course, it should concern everyone who is interested in the well-being of the Common Loon. It also causes one to wonder about the accuracy of the pamphlet.

  “If Loon gender can be determined only after observing its internal organs, you can imagine the problems confronting the birds during their mating season. If, as you point out, the Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute study proves the Loon is capable of vocabulary, ask yourself this question: Wouldn’t the first words learned by the Loon be: Sorry, I thought you were a female, or: Hey. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Hurrah! I was off the hook. Peabody had taken the bait. His conversation would now be “Loon directed”. No more slanderous attacks upon me for the rest of the evening. All I had to do was make an occasional encouraging sound and the Major would talk about the Common Loon until the stroke of twelve. I could relax.

  “What a cogent commentary,” I said.

  “I have no interest in throwing stones at the good work of the people of the Endangered Species Fund,” the Major explained, leaning back in his chair. “However, the accuracy of the All About Loons pamphlet is doubtful. The people who prepared it might find a bit of constructive criticism to be helpful.

  “If the Fund wants to protect the Common Loon from extinction, they shouldn’t bother with publishing a short pamphlet purporting to tell All About Loons. They should dedicate all of their resources to discovering how to easily tell the sex of a Loon without having to cut it open. Educating the Loons with an easy way to tell the sex of those sharing its species would, undoubtedly, result in a Loon population explosion. The bird would soon be saved from any possibility of being considered an Endangered Species.”

  “I never thought of it that way. I believe you’re right,” I said, encouraging him to continue. And Peabody continued.

  “This Loon publication,” the Major said, “tells us there are four different species of Loons in the northern hemisphere. The Arctic Loon, the Red Throated Loon and the Yellow Billed Loon stay in Canada and Alaska the year around. The Common Loon is more venturesome, but, according to this pamphlet, it will travel no further south than Minnesota, Michigan and Wisconsin. I find that claim to be preposterous.”

  “How very interesting”, I said, trying to look very interested.

  “If Loons venture no further south than those three mid-western states, how can you explain the presence of the 535 Loons inhabiting the Senate and the House of Representatives in Washington D.C.?

  “Frankly,” Peabody added, “I find fault with the Fund’s selection of the title for their pamphlet. ‘All About Loons’ is a manifest misnomer. The Fund’s report doesn’t even mention that more primitive and particularly vicious species of Loon who have developed the ability to draft Spendthrift Trusts. Let me tell you about them.”

  I had spoken too soon. I should have known better. Sadly, I resigned myself to
another few hours of castigation.

  The Dog Whisperer

  You must excuse a dog’s shortcomings.

  After all, he’s only human.

  - C. J. Wuss

  Major Nathaniel Peabody answered the doorbell, thinking (or, perhaps, hoping) it might be his attorney arriving unannounced to invite him to dinner at Bookbinders. However, it was Albert Wilson Meeker, the Third and it surprised him. Albert Wilson Meeker III was the one man the Major would never expect to ring his doorbell.

  It was nearly five years since Major Peabody first hunted with Albert Wilson Meeker III. He never hunted with him again. The Major is capable of overlooking modest personality deficiencies in any man who invites him to a hunt. Meeker’s defects of character, however, fell into the “glaring personality deficiencies” category. Moreover, the man had not the slightest suspicion he embodied deficiencies of any kind whatsoever.

  Vain, indulgent, self centered and insensitive, Albert Wilson Meeker III believed everyone shared the opinion of the high esteem which he assigned to himself. Major Peabody did not like him. Dogs did not like him. The men who hunted with him only grudgingly put up with him. Behind his back they called him “The Third”. Actually, that was not the nickname they called him. It sounded a lot like “Third”, but it used only four of the five letters. In fact, it was a word with an Elizabethan origin.

  “Hello, Nathaniel,” Meeker said as he pushed past the Major and, uninvited, entered the apartment. “It’s been a few years, but I still remember the great time we had in South Dakota.” Peabody remembered the time (he couldn’t forget it), but he had no recollection of it being great. Meeker went directly to the Major’s favorite wing backed chair and sat. “Sit down,” he ordered the still standing Major. “I want to talk to you.”