Читать книгу Backlash: A Compendium of Lore and Lies (Mostly Lies) Concerning Hunting, Fishing and the Out of Doors - Galen Winter - Страница 14

Improving the Breed

I count a number of dentists among my acquaintances. I wouldn’t call them friends. I don’t know anyone who calls a dentist a friend. While I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one, I can unequivocally say I carry no deep and abiding grudge against the members of that profession. Like most of you, I would meet with one of them - in the darkness of early morning and on a deserted road - to privately hunt or fish with him.

However, in case you haven’t noticed, it is quite clear that dentists are just a wee bit “touched”. While not, perhaps, serious psychic disorders, they display peculiar and aberrant behavior patterns. The tapestries of their character and personality contain more than one strange thread.

For Olympic quality “strange”, the naming of Doc Pomeroy would be followed by a motion to close nominations and direct the Secretary to cast a unanimous ballot. The Doc enjoys the hunt. When grouse, woodcock, pheasant, duck or quail occur, he’ll take out a shotgun and tramp the fields and coverts. All sober, lucid and normal, you say? Well, don’t be too quick to jump to any conclusions, friend. Listen to this:

For a number of years, it was Doc Pomeroy’s usual practice to spend Thursday evening attending a meeting of the Society for the Suppression of Saxophone Players. The stated aim of the Society was praiseworthy and attracted the participation of solid intelligent townsfolk.

At the weekly conclaves, the members presented thoughtful papers covering such matters as the promotion of legislation to declare possession of a saxophone to be a felony and the amending of the Oath of Allegiance to require prospective citizens to swear they were not now and never had been a member of any organization dedicated to the playing of the saxophone.

The social hours following the business meetings were vigorous. Last December, after a particularly stormy session in which a lot of caustic remarks and personal comments were made about a member of the Society, the group voted 27 to 1 to disband and reconstitute themselves as the Society For The Suppression Of Curmudgeons Who Drink Scotch Whisky And Smoke German Cigars.

Doc Pomeroy simply couldn’t understand how such a previously intelligent group could adopt such an unreasonable bias against those who promote fine traditions. In any event, he took his bottle of The Macallan and his box of German cigars from the Society’s locker and resigned his membership. This left Doc’s Thursday evenings open. He decided to embark on an in-depth study of dogs.

You may think this interest was engendered by years of bird hunting and a friendly involvement with and sincere affinity for our canine companions. You’d be wrong. The Doc had a long existing prejudice against anything that swam, flew or walked on four legs, including dogs. While useful in the hunt, dogs, otherwise, represented inconvenience and trouble.

Doc Pomeroy found his life style requirements were satisfied by limiting his canine association to hunting with people who had good dogs. The Doc owned a dog once. It couldn’t hunt, but always let Doc know when a stranger approached the property. Whenever it sensed the presence of an intruder, the dog would shove its tail between its legs, crawl under the bed and cower. The dog ran away one spring. Doc considered advertising for it, but concluded it would have been a waste of money. The dog couldn’t read.

Doc’s newly found interest in dogs was understandable. The more he saw of mankind, particularly after the unpleasantness at the Society’s December meeting, the less he appreciated the genus Homo sapiens and the more he respected animals.

Aided by his free time on Thursday evening, scotch whisky and German cigars, Doc began to wonder about the characteristics that would be found in a perfect dog. He came up with: A perfect dog is “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent.” He should also have a good nose and like to hunt.

How great it would be, thought the Doc, if dogs (a) didn’t have hides that smelled like rotting gunnysacks when they got wet, (b) had such pride in their body surface that they would remove burrs and ticks without human assistance, (c) had a smaller stomach to reduce the expense of the food needed to operate them, and, (d) would eliminate one of the most onerous of the tasks of dog ownership by burying their own by-product in a neat and sanitary manner.

After all of this heavy thinking, the Doc was sure he was capable of developing a program of cross-breeding that would develop the perfect bird dog. First, he borrowed Tim Nickash’s Black Lab, Lothario. Next he decided to use his garage as the ... (I don’t know what you call it. I mean I know what you call it, but I’m not sure they’ll print those words. Let’s just say...) the place of assignation.

Being a neophyte in the cross pollination business, Doc got right in the garage arena with the participants. He thought he might be able to introduce the parties and, perhaps, help them along.

Well, the Doc will get out of the hospital next week. The transfusions helped take his name from the critical list, but it will be some time before all the stitches can be removed. He never should have tried to breed a Black Lab with his wife’s Siamese cat.