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.”
Consternation! 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
