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
