no,” another Yooper answered before the Major could say a word. “The Major is only interested in birds. If deer flew, he’d be up here with us every November. He’s a shot gunner. You may not believe this. Major Peabody doesn’t own a deer rifle – not even one.”
A chorus of expressions of disbelief followed that last revelation.
“Amazing!”
“It can’t be true!”
“Peabody not owning a deer rifle? I don’t believe it!”
Peabody looked at the smirking faces of his companions and knew it was time for him to defend himself. “It isn’t necessary to carry one of your outsized canons to finish off a large quadruped,” he said.
“Amazing,” one of his fellow hunters emphatically exclaimed.
“No,” Peabody countered. “Not ‘amazing’ at all. It’s the truth.”
“Amazing,” another of his friends repeated.
Peabody slowly shook his head in feigned disbelief. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I fear you have neglected your studies of history. There was a time when gunpowder was unknown in the entire world. Later, it was known only in China where, incidentally, it was used exclusively to make fireworks. In those days, people did not have deer rifles and yet the meat of large wild animals formed a part of their regular diet.”
Peabody leaned back in his chair, rattled the ice in his empty glass and wondered what he as going to say next. While refreshing the Major’s libation, his host entered the argument. “Back in those days, doctors used leeches and bleeding to cure sickness. Nowadays the medics use more advanced methods. It’s the same with hunters. We have no need to use primitive, inefficient and ineffective hunting methods - hence the present-day, beautiful deer rifle. The process is called ‘the advancement of civilization’.”
Another of the Yoopers took up the cudgel. “You may not need a rifle to protect yourself from deer. They’ll run away. But suppose you’re picking berries and you run into a bear. Then what could you do without appropriate modern rifled weaponry?”
Peabody was ready. “Strange you should ask,” he said. “That very thing happened to me a few years ago right here in Iron County. I was grouse hunting and ran into a nice patch of raspberries. I began to fill my hat when a black bear the size of the Empire State Building reared up in front of me and let go with a snarl that would have frightened the living bejaysus out of Ivan the Terrible. I decided that shooting the beast with 7 1/2 chilled shot was not the prudent thing to do. It would have made him angrier and he was already quite mad at me for invading his berry patch.
“I’m sure you are all aware of the term ‘running down a deer’?” It was a question. Two of the Yoopers slowly nodded while the three younger men looked perplexed.
“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
