The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  “The pre-gun-weapon-era Indians,” the Major explained, “would chase a deer on foot. They would stay on its trail exerting constant pressure until the animal dropped from exhaustion.” The young men looked to the older ones for confirmation and saw them give affirmative nods. Not one of them said ‘amazing’.

  “I jumped up and down,” Peabody said. “I waved my arms and shouted the most blood curdling yells I could imagine. The bear began to run at full speed. I immediately dropped the shotgun as unnecessary baggage and joined in the race. A bear can sprint at high speed for short distances, but it isn’t able to maintain that pace for very long. My bear had the best of it for the first four or five rods. Then I began to gain on him.

  “The bear apparently led a life even more dissolute than my own. After some ten minutes, it began to slow down. Of course, the bear had prepared for winter hibernation and had developed a thick layer of fat. That extra weight combined with the effects of the heat of the day and the bear’s thick fur coat took their toll.

  “The race led us over a large fallen log and half way up a steep wooded hill. Not more than ten feet separated me from the beast when it faltered, sunk to the ground, gasped, and died on the spot. I had run that bear to death.

  “Frankly, friends,” Peabody continued, “I’ll admit I, too, was approaching exhaustion. If that creature had been able to run for a few more minutes, I would have collapsed and the bear would have caught up with me and eaten me.”

  In unison, the five Yoopers spoke. “Amazing,” they said.

  Experts

  “You don’t appear to be in a jovial mood,” I said to Major Peabody, “Do I note a touch of discontent?”

  The Major didn’t bother to answer. He favored me with an angry, sullen, threatening stare. We were in my apartment, waiting for the lovely Stephanie. She had invited us to an afternoon reception honoring the author of the book, “How to Live to be a Hundred and Ten”. The man, she said, was internationally recognized as an expert in matters of diet and health.

  I knew how much Peabody hated afternoon social affairs. He would rather be tortured by the Mescalero Apache and staked out over a hill of fire ants. If he dislikes anything more than cocktail parties, it is writers and their elephantine egos, but he was trapped. He would never disappoint the lovely Stephanie. Years ago she invited him to a performance of Swan Lake. Peabody seriously considered contracting anthrax or, alternatively, committing suicide. However, he went to the ballet rather than disappoint her.

  And so, to avoid disappointing her, the Major felt compelled to spend an afternoon in the presence of not only an author, but an expert, to boot. The Major’s opinion of so-called experts was lower than his opinion of politicians.

  Though Peabody detested television, while we waited for the lovely Stephanie to arrive, we watched a panel of TV newscasters interviewing an expert on military matters. “Will you listen to those fools.” Peabody exclaimed. “Experts? Hah! We are besieged and bedeviled by armies of so-called experts. I blame it on the television news programs. They have to fill their time slot with something so they hire some photogenic ex-officer who was probably cashiered for incompetence ten years ago. They call him an ‘expert’ and he proceeds to tell everyone how run the war in Timbuktu. Expert? My foot.” (The Major didn’t say “foot”. He mentioned a different part of his anatomy)

  “Hollywood types,” he continued, “are excellent examples of experts. Some high school dropout with a low pitched voice, a reasonably straight nose and an outsized bust makes a few million dollars as an actress. Then, magically, she becomes an expert on everything. She’s on the talk shows confidently telling us how to save the universe from whatever threat has most recently been imagined by other experts. Damn experts, damn television and damn me for watching it.” The Major went to the television set and punched the OFF button with such vigor. I thought he might break his trigger finger.

  “Young man,” he said to me, “I am indebted to your legal profession.” That statement came as a complete surprise to me. I know the Major’s low opinion of attorneys. I’m afraid my jaw dropped. “Yes, lawyers have properly defined the true value of an expert’s opinion.” Peabody’s explanatory statement did nothing to cause a change in my expression. Apparently, Peabody noticed my confusion and decided to offer clarification.

  “Let’s say Uncle Pete dies at the ripe old age of 85,” he said. “He wills his entire estate to the young, nicely sculptured blonde who lives next door. Uncle Pete’s only living blood relative tries to break the will. He goes to an attorney who proceeds to hire three psychiatrists who testify as expert witnesses. Each one swears that Uncle Pete must have been operating under undue influence and was incompetent when the will was signed.

  “The young, nicely sculptured blonde’s attorney promptly puts three other psychiatrists on the stand. His experts all testify that Uncle Pete’s association with the young blonde proved he was not only lucky, but unquestionably sane. Each set of expert witnesses testifies the other one doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

  “The legal profession has performed a great service to the discerning public. Lawyers - bless their souls - have shown both sets of experts are incompetent. Their cross examination of the other guy’s expert witness proves no one should believe any of them.”

  The toot-toot-toot of a horn announced the lovely Stephanie’s arrival. Peabody disguised his unhappiness and was reasonably pleasant on the trip to the country home of the hostess. She met us at the door and we were introduced to the author - the guest of honor - the expert on health and longevity. The man wore a tweedy jacket, a tattersall shirt and a bow tie - the disguise regularly worn by those trying to fool the public into believing they are intellectual.

  As usual, Major Peabody searched the room for anyone who looked like he might be a bird hunter. He was disappointed. Finding none, he stuck close to me for protection. He puppy dogged behind me with a disregarded glass of white wine in his hand. He forced smiles and occasionally used up two or three sentences before he could escape an unwanted conversation.

  The Major’s ability to be civil when under the pressure of trying circumstances is limited to, at best, no more than two hours. Two and a half hours had already passed when the hostess led the writer toward us. Five or six ready-to-gush females and an equal number of sycophant males trailed in his wake.

  “I see you are quite tanned Major,” the guest of honor observed. “Do you spend much time in the sun?”

  “As much time in the un-crowded out-of-doors as I possibly can,” was Peabody’s terse response. I believe I was the only one who understood why he emphasized the word ‘un-crowded’. He desperately wanted to get away from the cocktail party. The author was secretly hoping for the answer the Major gave. Now he had another opportunity to display his wisdom. “Oh my! The sun can be quite dangerous, Major Peabody. You do use sun screen?”

  “No. I can’t be bothered with it. I tried it once, but I sweat. The stuff ran into my eyes and I couldn’t shoot straight.”

  “You should avoid the risk of developing skin cancer, Major,” the expert seriously intoned. The retinue congregating around him quickly nodded in agreement. “It’s almost as dangerous as eating red meat,” one of them said, trying to adopt the expert’s same serious intonation. “Or any meat,” another one added.

  “Surely, you don’t eat meat, Major,” the author said, but when his eyes met Peabody’s stern and unwavering stare, he had reason to question the assumption. “You don’t. Do you?” he questioned.

  “Grouse and duck,” Peabody immediately answered. Then he paused for a moment and, for the benefit of the expert and his retinue, gave a more complete response. “Canvasback, Mallard and Teal are very good. So is pheasant. Occasionally one of my hunting companions will provide me with venison or elk or antelope. When they neglect me, I’m reduced to eating Porterhouse steak or rack of lamb. I like ham, too - and any kind of pork - roasts, chops, bacon - all very tasty.”

  Consternatio
n! Surprise! An audible gasp came from both the author and the obsequious group surrounding him. “Major! I feel it is incumbent upon me to beg you to change your unhealthy patterns. If you will follow my wholesome dietary and hygienic rules, a long and active life lies in front of you. If not, well...”

  Again, heads nodded in agreement. They needed to wait only seconds before the Major responded.

  “I will bet one thousand dollars that I will live longer than you.” Sounds like: “Oh, come now” and “Well - well” and “I see” came from the author as he backed away and his shocked entourage retreated in confusion. As gracefully as she could, Stephanie told the hostess she really had to return to Philadelphia to attend a non-existent meeting of the Friends of the Philharmonic. She quickly whisked us away.

  On the trip back to the city, Stephanie, at first, was silent. After a few miles she smiled. A few miles later, finally, she chuckled. She couldn’t help but ask the Major what he would have done if the man had accepted his bet.

  “It is and continues to be my belief,” Peabody told her, “that all experts publicly exude absolute confidence in their opinions. However, when it comes to putting their money where their mouths are, that confidence disappears and they show a strange but entirely understandable reluctance to ‘put up’.”

  “But, what if he took your bet,” she persisted

  “I wasn’t worried,” he answered. “I was just trying to shut him up. Suppose he made the bet and suppose he won. He’d have a hard time collecting from me.”

  Dog’s Best Friend

  Major Peabody invited his apartment building’s Resident Agent into his quarters and did his best to engage him in pleasant conversation. It was soon apparent that the man had no time for small talk. He looked at the Major through narrowing and suspicious eyes. His interest was limited. He wanted to know only if something in the apartment had stopped working and needed repair.

  Peabody responded by mentioning his long residence and cordial relations with the management of the corporation that owned the apartment complex. The agent was suspicious. He guessed at the Major’s purpose and volunteered the information that rent reductions were completely out of the question.

  Peabody confused him by saying such a thought never occurred to him and offered to provide a cigar and a dollop of appropriately aged, single malt Scotch whisky. When the agent refused the offer, Peabody knew he faced an uphill battle, but he persevered.

  “I believe I saw Mrs. Johnson bring a bag of kitty litter into the elevator last week,” the Major said, “and, if I’m not mistaken, for some years now I’ve heard a canary sing from one of the upper apartments. I enjoy the cheerful chirping of that lovely canary. I love birds and kitty cats, too – in fact, any kind of animals.”

  Before he could continue, the agent cut to the chase. “Aha.” he cried out. “Now I know what you’re after. It won’t work, Major.”

  Disregarding the agent’s unequivocal statement and stony expression, Peabody pressed onward. “Only a wise and highly intelligence person is able to recognize the value of disregarding counterproductive and insane lease provisions,” he said. “You, for example, have winked at the lease provisions that say ‘No Pets’. What can be wrong with letting a lonely old woman keep a canary or a cat? I compliment you on your so very good judgment.”

  The Agent abruptly arose from the chair. “We’ve already been over this, Major Peabody,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. “Cats and birds are one thing. Dogs are another. The company policy is: NO DOGS - and NO DOGS it is. Not a little tiny Chihuahua. Not a huge, ugly, barking hound of the Baskervilles like the one you smuggled in here. I gave you three days to get rid of it. You have one day left. If that monstrosity is still here, prepare yourself for an eviction notice!” He made his escape and slammed the door.

  As soon as it heard the door shut and knew it was safe to make an appearance, a dog came from his hiding place in the Major’s bedroom. Alexander the Great was a wire-haired, pointing Griffon. Born in northern Minnesota, the dog was trained to find and hold Ruffed Grouse, He was trained well. Peabody had often hunted over Alexander and was impressed by the animal’s abilities.

  Recently, Alexander’s owner died after struggling with a heart that just wouldn’t behave. His Testament bequeathed the animal to the Major. Peabody couldn’t keep Alexander in his apartment and he soon discovered finding a Philadelphia home for the dog was not an easy task. Few people shared his love of hunting dogs. Man’s inhumanity to dog was more widespread than can be imagined.

  Damnit all, anyway, the Major thought. There has to be a way around this. He considered possible alternatives. He could murder that stubborn, unfair scoundrel - the Resident Agent - and hope the replacement would be more amenable to reason. He discarded that thought for the obvious reason. The possibility of the company sending a reasonable man to replace a murdered building manager was miniscule.

  It occurred to him he could move to another apartment where the landlord didn’t mind a dog pen in the building’s back lot, didn’t mind circles of dead grass where the chemicals in dog by-product made growth of grass impossible for years and didn’t mind dog hair and dog smell in and around a tenant’s quarters.

  No, the Major concluded, it would be impossible to find such a landlord in Philadelphia. He recalled his long ago attempts to convince his own wife of the gratifying enjoyment of association with hunting dogs. She reacted by citing the presence of his Labrador Retriever as a basis for the cruel and inhuman treatment she alleged in her divorce complaint. Her attorney had a hard time convincing her not to name the dog as a co-respondent.

  Peabody thought about again trying to talk his attorney into providing a home for Alexander the Great. It was a good plan, but there were two problems. The attorney knew nothing about dogs. It wouldn’t take a year before Alexander would have been pampered to such an extent that it would be little more than a house pet, unwilling or unable to do the work of a hunting dog. The second problem was more serious. The lawyer had flatly refused the proposition and, worse, he had already convinced the lovely Stephanie to reject any dog sitting proposition the Major might advance to her.

  “Well,” Peabody said as he scratched the head Alexander had conveniently laid in his lap, “I suppose I can call the animal shelter. They might find a good home for you.” Alexander heard and understood. He lifted his head and looked alarmed. Suppose, the dog thought, they place me with some non-hunter. Suppose they give me to a gun controller. I might never hunt grouse again. The Major watched as tears began to form in Alexander’s eyes.

  An equally terrible scenario occurred to the Major. A wire-haired Griffon is much too big to be a lap dog. It is not a handsome animal and few, if any, would go so far as to call it cute. A Griffon is not the kind of dog taken from animal shelters and given to children as pets. Suppose, the Major thought, the animal shelter couldn’t find anyone to take Alexander. They’d push him into a vacuum tank and suck the air out. Alexander’s last moments on earth would be terrible.

  Time was running out and one by one the Major’s options were disappearing. In desperation, he called his friend, Doc Carmichael. “I’ve got a tough problem and I need your help, Doc,” he said. “I’m quite depressed and I don’t know where to turn. I’m beginning to think euthanasia is the only solution left.”

  “I can’t become directly involved,” was Carmichael’s immediate response. “The stupid laws being as they are, I could be charged with murder. I’ll give you a note identifying the chemicals you’ll need and the formula for preparing a dosage. Then you’re on your own. The product is lethal. It will do the job quickly. You won’t suffer much.”

  “It’s not for me, you idiot,” Peabody answered. “It’s for a dog.”

  An hour later, Carmichael arrived at the Major’s apartment carrying the proverbial doctor’s little black bag. It contained a hypodermic needle and a mixture of drugs calculated to propel a 65 pound dog into a painless but permanent sleep.


  * * * * *

  Alexander lay quietly in the backseat of the Jeep, his muzzle resting on his paws. He seemed to mirror the sadness of the two men who sat in gray, dejected silence as they drove to Carmichael’s cottage where Alexander the Great’s final resting place would overlook a tree lined lake.

  It seemed obvious that Alexander knew what was in store for him. Through pleading eyes, he watched as Doc Carmichael opened his little black bag.

  * * * * *

  “I need a drink,” the Major announced when he returned to his apartment. “So do I” said a solemn and worried Doc Carmichael. “I’m not happy with what happened at the lake. How am I ever going to explain it to Janell?”

  Peabody consoled him. “She won’t blame you for refusing to kill an animal and in time she’ll get to love Alexander. She’ll overlook the hair on the furniture. Look at the bright side, Doc. Now we can both hunt over a great Ruffed Grouse dog.”

  “Yes,” Carmichael agreed, “but I’m the one who has to feed him and pay the veterinary bills.”

  Peabody merely smiled.

  Animal Rights

  Major Nathaniel Peabody does not enjoy cocktail parties. During the years he served as a Military Attaché in various United States embassies, it was his duty to attend them. He was forced to hold a martini in his hand (without drinking it) for entire Saturday afternoons when he would have preferred to be in the field, hunting the local waterfowl and upland birds.

  Moreover, as he matured the Major developed a distaste (which eventually approached a loathing) for small talk that does not concern itself with dogs or shotguns. Peabody considers attending cocktail parties to be an activity only slightly less offensive than stealing pennies from the eyes of the dead.

  When he retired and established his residence in Philadelphia, Major Peabody immediately took a fancy to my fiancé. Though she is some thirty years his junior and, like me, definitely not the outdoor type, the lovely Stephanie charmed him. She is the only one who can induce him to attend a Main Line cocktail party and has done so on more than one occasion. And so, as a result of Stephanie’s cajoling, Major Peabody agreed to accompany us to such an affair.