The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  During dinner, I brilliantly performed another coup. “Oh, Major,” I said, squinting my eyes and slowly shaking my head. “I completely forgot. The lovely Stephanie wanted to know if you would be free for dinner tomorrow. Please don’t say no. I’ll be in serious trouble if you can’t make it and she finds out we’ve had dinner tonight without her.”

  I was in a good mood as I drove home after delivering the Major to his apartment. It was worth the investment. I had provided him with food, with drink and with cigars. He never suspected I had slipped one past him.

  * * * * *

  Major Peabody opened his hallway closet door. He hung up his coat and then kicked his hunting boots to the side. After sliding the attorney-purchased case of the Macallan into the place vacated by his hunting boots, Peabody reviewed the supplies stored on the top shelf of the closet. Four additional bottles of the Macallan and two unopened boxes of Dominican Republic cigars rested there.

  Peabody returned into his living room. He sat in his favorite wing back chair and put the twenty five H. Upmann cigars in the humidor. It had been a successful day.

  “Let’s see,” he mused. “Dinner with the counselor and the lovely Stephanie tomorrow and dinner with Doc Carmichael on Monday. We’ll talk about a November duck hunt on the Chesapeake and he’ll pick up the tab. I’ll have to figure out something for Tuesday. Yes,” he said, “this worked out much better than I planned. I would have settled for the dinner at Bookbinders, but I managed to get a case of The Macallan and a box of cigars, too.”

  The Three Little Pigs

  The lovely Stephanie called at four-thirty. Without notice of any kind, her five year old niece had been left with her. The child was going to spend the night and the lovely Stephanie was unable to find a baby sitter on such short notice. She told me our plans for dinner and an evening at the Philharmonic would have to be cancelled unless I could find someone to watch over little Clara. After a number of unsuccessful attempts to locate someone willing to spend Saturday night with the little girl, things looked grim. Then I remembered Major Nathaniel Peabody.

  The Major always claimed he liked dogs and little children. That he liked dogs - hunting dogs in particular - was beyond question. As far as I was concerned, the jury was still out on his alleged attraction to little children, but I was desperate and willing to try anything. I called him and was pleasantly surprised when he not only professed great competence in the baby sitting business, but added that he would be overjoyed to tend the lovely Stephanie’s niece.

  Peabody finished the conversation by stated he would not accept a penny more than fifty dollars for his services - “payable in advance” was the way he put it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him I was so desperate. Nevertheless, I happily agreed. Pleased by my good luck, I drove Peabody to the lovely Stephanie’s Bryn Mawr condo. The fates continued to smile upon me. We left for dinner before any personality conflict erupted between the Major and little Clara.

  Frankly, I expected to be confronted by a screaming child and a disheveled Major when we returned to the condo after midnight. However, excepting only the discovery that a prized antique tea cup had been used for a cigar ash try, all was in good order. An empty bottle on the tea table attested to the fact that Peabody had found the lovely Stephanie’s supply of Spanish Sherry. He was dozing in an over-stuffed chair and little Clara was peacefully sleeping in the guest bedroom. No furniture had been broken and there were no other signs of a fight.

  When I drove him back to his apartment, Peabody told me Clara was no problem at all. He told her a bedtime story and she went to sleep without any fuss.

  * * * * *

  “Now, Clara, honey,” Major Peabody softly said, “Take a little sip of this. Now, snuggle up in your bed and Uncle Nathaniel will tell you the story of the Three Little Pigs.”

  “Oh, Uncle Nathaniel, I already know the story and the big bad wolf scares me.”

  “Well now, honey, people tell lots of lies about wolves. They’ve been given a bad rap. It’s time you learned the truth. The false, shameless and disgraceful stories that have vilified the wolves for so many years should be exposed. You know Uncle Nathaniel wouldn’t fib to you, don’t you?”

  Little Clara looked dubious, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Wolves, Clara, honey,” the Major continued, “are not wanton killers. You shouldn’t be afraid of them. Now, just settle back and Uncle Nathaniel will tell you the true story about the three little pigs. Here, take another little sip of this.”

  “Once upon a time, during the Great Depression of the l930s, the only food many families had to eat was the fish and game they poached from the forests, lakes and streams. The animals fared no better than the humans. At times, they, too, went hungry.

  “The wolves ate better than most of the four footed animals because they were accomplished hunters. Pigs, being some of the most intelligent members of the animal family, also ate well and survived those Depression years without any great inconveniences.

  “Actually, the pigs did better than the wolves. The 1930s were known as ‘hard times’, but that’s when the phrase ‘fat as a pig’ came into being. It is still in general use today. In those days nobody every said ‘fat as a wolf’’. Nobody uses that phrase today. Wolves didn’t and don’t eat as well as pigs. Wolves are nice guys, just like human hunters - especially bird hunters - nice guys.

  “Like I said, pigs are smarter than wolves. If they caught Freddie the Woodchuck and ate him, they wouldn’t brag about it and tell everyone how delicious he was. Pigs knew their success in finding food would make other hungry animals envious, so they kept their mouths shut.

  “Take another little sip, honey.

  “Because wolves are good hunters, they liked to publicly brag about their hunting ability and, Clara honey, I’m afraid, they liked to exaggerate - just like today’s bird hunters. Moreover, outside of their immediate families, wolves wouldn’t share their food with other animals. What with their bragging and their refusal to share food, wolves became quite unpopular with the other animals that often went hungry.

  “Nevertheless, it was a murder trial involving three pigs that gave the wolves their bad reputation. It all began in the mid-1930s when a wolf disappeared and a report was filed with the Department of Missing Wolves. The sheriff, a bulldog named Sam, investigated the report. He went to the missing wolf’s den. It was in Disarray. Disarray is in a rural Township in the western part of the County. It should not be confused with the State of Disarray which is in Washington, D. C. The den was in shambles. Lamps were broken and personal papers were scattered about. The unmistakable signs of a struggle were everywhere.

  “Sheriff Sam called for assistance from the State Crime Lab. It sent its Hoof Print expert to the scene and he found three different sets of cloven hoof prints entering the wolves’ den. Armed with that information, Sheriff Sam interviewed a number of local white tailed deer, thinking some of them may have killed the missing wolf to avenge the wolves’ depredations of their herds. The deer had air-tight alibis. At the time of the wolf’s disappearance, they were all at the State capitol, marching in support of a bill that would outlaw deer hunting.

  “Continuing with the cloven hoof clue, the sheriff was able to separate the sheep from the goats, question the flocks and eliminate all of them from complicity in the crime. Then he directed his attentions to the pig community. He began his inquiries by searching the homes of three porkers, brothers and notorious law breakers.

  “Here honey, have another sip of this.

  “In the pigs’ back yard, Sam found a wolf skin, stretched and drying in the sun. This aroused his suspicion. Inside the building, he found a stew pot bubbling on the wood stove. Mixed in with onions, truffles and carrots, he found bones that might have been those of a large dog or, perhaps, those of the missing wolf!

  “Sheriff Sam accused the three pigs of killing the missing wolf and arrested them on the spot. The District Attorney brought charges and the stage was set for a j
ury trial in the matter of State -v- Three Little Pigs. The pigs hired a weasel with the reputation of being one of the cleverest criminal attorneys in the county and a plea of Not Guilty was entered.

  “It was generally believed the DA had an air-tight case. The bones and the hide were the corpus delicti and the stew provided the motive for the killing. Moreover, DNA taken from the pigs, when compared with the DNA of the pig bristles found in the wolf’s den, placed the pigs at the scene of the crime. However, in retrospect, observers note major errors in the preparation of the State’s case.

  “First, the presiding judge who heard the case was an old hoot owl, not known for having developed an appreciable degree of wisdom. He had been elected to the bench because of the overwhelming support of his fellow lawyers. It is universally recognized that attorneys favor only those candidates for judicial office who are dumber than they are. They don’t want smart judges. They want ones they can fool. Perhaps the DA should have asked for a different judge.

  “The DA made no attempt to counteract the weasel attorney’s influence in the matter of jury selection. The weasel convinced Judge Owl that the constitutional right to a ‘trial by a jury of your peers’ in this case meant all jurors had to be pigs.

  “Finally, the DA’s presentation of his case was decidedly ragged. He spent so much time describing the intricacies of DNA testing that half the jurors became confused rather than knowledgeable. The other half went to sleep. After someone awakened Judge Owl, he had to wake up the jury. When the DA rested his case, the weasel went to work.

  “The first witness attacked the character of the deceased wolf. He claimed he was an experienced shepherd and an expert of wolves. He testified wolves were outlaws who deserved no protection from the legal system. If a wolf had been murdered, he contended, the act should be classified as ‘praiseworthy homicide” and the murderer set free.

  “In his cross examination, the DA failed to show the shepherd’s anti-wolf bias. He didn’t even tell the jury the witness was known as ‘the boy who cried wolf’. Then the weasel dismissed the DNA evidence by claiming the letters meant ‘Damn Near Anybody’. The all-pig jury could be seen nodding in agreement.

  “In a surprise move, the weasel, called the defendants to testify. The first pig testified that the wolf attacked him, chased him into his house of straw, huffed and puffed and blew his house down. Terrified, the first little pig ran to his brother’s home for sanctuary.

  “The second little pig corroborated the testimony of his brother and tearfully told the jury how the wolf, snarling with bared teeth, circled his house of sticks trying to find a means of entrance. Finding none, he huffed and puffed and blew the house down, leaving only a pile of rubble and an unpaid mortgage. He and his brother narrowly escaped the ravening wolf and managed to get to the home of the third brother.

  “The third little pig then took the stand. The fearsome wolf, he claimed, was unable to destroy his house of brick, but entered it by sliding down the chimney. In fear for their lives, the three little pigs then hit the wolf over the head with iron skillets, killing it on the spot. There wasn’t a dry eye in the jury when he finished testifying.

  “Judge Owl, remembering how the wolf had bragged about catching and eating his aunt Maude, gave the jury instructions clearly biased in favor of the three little pigs. The jury deliberated for less than an hour before returning a verdict of “Not Guilty.’

  “And so, little Clara, to this day it is the common, but completely false belief that the villain of the story was the good natured wolf and the good guys were those three lying pigs. Now you know the truth.”

  Rara Avis

  Major Nathaniel Peabody rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass. I took it from his hand and, when restored to its original condition, returned it. He sipped and nodded his approval. On the following morning he and three of his friends would leave for South Dakota where they would celebrate the opening day of the pheasant hunting season. Pheasants were definitely on the Major’s mind.

  He talked about them throughout the evening meal at Bookbinders. He talked about them when we drove back to his apartment. Now, seated in his favorite wing back chair, enjoying libations and a cigar, he continued to talk about them. During the entire experience, I limited myself to polite comment. (“Is that right, Major?”, “How interesting, Major”, “Really, Major?”, and “You don’t say, Major?”)

  Frankly, Major Peabody told me much more about pheasants than I cared to know - much, much more than I cared to know. A change of subject was long overdue. “Very interesting, Major Peabody. Very, very interesting,” I said and, hoping to sidetrack him, added: “Do you know such interesting things about other birds? Cardinals? Or Rose Breasted Gross Beaks?”

  “You’ve just gone up in my estimation, my boy,” he replied. “I didn’t realize you, too, were fascinated by birds. I thought you were only pretending to be interested in pheasants. You’ve opened the door to a whole new series of topics.” (Inwardly, I shuddered.) Peabody leaned back in his chair and I prepared myself for a long evening.

  “You are probably acquainted with the Kiwi,” he began. (I thought it was a fruit.) “It is an exceptionally strange bird.” (Well, at least he wasn’t going to talk about pheasants.) “It’s the only bird that has its nostrils at the end of its beak. Isn’t that curious? The female Kiwi is the size of a chicken but it lays an egg as big as an Ostrich egg. That’s astonishing.”

  “Amazing,” I said and tried, unsuccessfully, to think about something else.

  “I agree completely,” Peabody said. “It is a wonderful bird. It is nocturnal and it spends most of the daylight hours in a nest burrowed underground. It can’t fly. It doesn’t have any wings. It is an irritable and bad tempered fellow and it isn’t easily domesticated. Unlike its distant cousin, the Rarie bird, the Kiwi is not a good pet.”

  “The Rarie bird?” I questioned.

  “Yes, the Rarie. Have you ever seen one?” he asked. I never heard of a Rarie bird, let alone see one, but I had no opportunity to admit it. Major Peabody didn’t wait for an answer to his question. He steamed ahead at full speed. “I’d be surprised if you had. Few people know about them and fewer have ever seen one. The Rarie is a Western Hemisphere apteryx. Usually a shy and retiring wingless bird, the Rarie is found only in a few wild and uninhabited areas in the Sierra Madre Occidental Mountains in the Mexican State of Durango.

  “I’ve been unable to find any in-depth studies of the bird. Some commentators say the Rarie is a species heading for extinction. Others say the population remains stable, but the bird’s territory is limited because of its as yet undetermined, but probably narrow, climatic or environmental life requirements. Certainly the Rarie is not common and I would not hazard a guess as to its future. Though they are not game birds, I have come to admire them. The Rarie is a pleasant and sociable thing. I know this to be a fact from personal experience.

  “Years ago, I visited the estancia of Francisco Lopez. For well over a hundred years the Lopez family has operated a cattle ranch in the State of Durango. The Lopez ranch is large, containing tree groves, scrub land, planted grains, waterways, mesquite and cacti. It has all the elements needed to attract large flocks of White Winged Doves. That explains why I always accept don Francisco’s hunting invitations with shameless speed.

  “I recall my first trip to the Lopez ranch. In those days I knew nothing about the Rarie. You can imagine my surprise when I first saw one. Unlike the New Zealand Kiwi, the Rarie is not nocturnal and prefers to peck around for seeds during daylight hours. At don Francisco’s request, one of his vaqueros captured one and brought it to the hacienda.

  “The Durango Rarie is much smaller than the Kiwi. It is about the size of a tennis ball and is covered with narrow, pinnate, iridescent plumage - like short bits of individual peacock feathers. The bird has large blue eyes and relatively short legs. It isn’t aggressive and, apparently, easily bonds with human beings. I was immediately attracted to it. Of course, I wanted to brin
g it back to Arizona, but there was a problem. The United States Department of Agriculture specifically prohibits the importation of Rarie birds.

  “I can understand why the Department doesn’t want to run the risk of bringing a new species into the country. Since the first Brown Tree Snakes were inadvertently introduced into Guam, the island has been overrun by them. It is estimated there are 1,300 of them per square mile. You can imagine their destructive effect on that island’s ecosystem in general and, in particular, the local bird populations. In the United States, various State Natural Resource Departments have their hands full in combating other alien imports such as the Zebra Mussel, Eurasian water milfoil and that disagreeable looking, air breathing, land crawling, voracious predator, the Asian walking fish.

  “The U S Department of Agriculture had no idea of the extent or character of the impact the Rarie might have on our environment, but they have had many disagreeable experiences with the unintended consequences occasioned by importing foreign species into the country. I applaud them for their caution. Nevertheless,” Peabody admitted, “I wanted a pet Rarie.

  “At that time I was stationed near Flagstaff, almost a thousand miles from the Rarie’s home territory in Durango. Raries can’t fly and even if motivated by the most powerful of mating season urges, I doubted any of them would walk from Durango to Flagstaff. Though my knowledge of biology is fairly limited, I believed the bird would not be able to reproduce all by itself. Therefore, I came to the conclusion that one pet Rarie would cause no serious environmental damage to northern Arizona.

  “It was a difficult decision, but I decided to make a single exception to my rule of never violating a government edict.” (I don’t believe the Major saw my automatic expression of surprise when he suggested he was reluctant to violate rules, governmental or otherwise.) Peabody looked down and sheepishly admitted: “I smuggled a mature male Rarie bird past the Nogales Customs Station and into my off-base quarters in Flagstaff.