To test the second postulate, I recently ran a scientific survey. I questioned all of my hunting and fishing acquaintances. Without exception, every one of them agreed, unreservedly, that hunters and fishermen were all admirable fellows, endowed with a markedly superior intellect. I showed these decisive results to What’s-Her-Name and she said: “Humnphf,” thereby proving the first hypothesis.
The fact that additional sufferings have been assigned to the sportsman is incontrovertible. Consider the increases in license fees, the uncontrolled growth of recreational rafting on our trout streams and the probability that we will be dragged off to some wretched social event where we will be expected to wear a tie.
When the little woman has her heart set on going to the Koenigs for wine and cheese next Friday “because I hear Alyce has redone her bedroom and I want to see it and all of our friends will be there and you haven’t taken me out since the opening of the trout season last spring” - well, take my advice friends, give up. Don’t fight it.
Oh, I suppose you could come out with: “Aaeegghh, kakka kah hakk. I didn’t want to worry you hon, but yesterday I went to see Doc Fischer for a check-up. He says I’ve got the Black Plague. It’s very contagious. Maybe you’d better go without me.”
It won’t work. She’s almost certain to remember Doc Fischer is a veterinarian. If she doesn’t believe you, that tale will put an additional strain on your, at best, rather tenuous relationship. If she does buy it, you’ll only be postponing the inevitable. You might as well get it over with. You know you’ll have to attend one of those affairs every year or so. It’s part of the special price you must pay for having the magnificent good fortune of being an outdoorsman.
All right then. You’re at this party and you’re bored to death. You haven’t said a word in an hour - except for “Yes, dear” and “Ha, ha.” Your hostess will think it is incumbent upon her to bring you into the mainstream of the party and make sure you have a good time. She has read the books on the hostessing business. She has learned to put a guest at ease by starting a conversation on some subject in which he is interested.
When she gets that look in her eye and advances toward you, be prepared. You’re in for a question about the Great Out Of Doors.
A common question is: “Why does a doggie hold up one of his paws when he points at a birdie?” The answer is: “A hunting dog will frequently interrupt a step as it closes on a bird. Thus, a front foot or a hind foot, may be held in the air as the dog freezes and rigidly indicates the presence and location of a quarry. But be just a bit careful with the raised hind foot. I got fooled once.”
Last year, Doug Burris was hostess engaged, as follows: “My husband is a duck hunter. What does he mean when he talks about six chilled shot?” Doug answered: “Drinking warm whiskey on a cold day is considered by some to be injurious to your health. Your husband, madam, is addicted to sitting in a duck blind and drinking whiskey after it has been chilled for six minutes.”
When you’re at a party, it’s important to pay attention and not let your mind wander. Bob Gartzke got into trouble at a Bryn Mawr social event. He was thinking about ice fishing while his hostess was going on about bird watching. She claimed she saw something quite spectacular during the previous summer.
Bob regained consciousness in time to hear her ask if he could identify it. She said it had a yellow tail and caught flies. Bob said it must have been a Chinese outfielder.
Anyway, when Alyce Koenig approached, I was ready for her. She asked me: “How does one stop a dog from jumping up on one?” In a good loud voice I said: “Kick him square in the...”
At this point What’s-Her-Name apparently had an attack of something. She let out a scream and became quite agitated. She grabbed me by the arm and hustled me out of the house. I got into the car and drove her straight home. She didn’t say anything. She seemed kind of white and tense and she made gurgling noises.
In a few days she was back to normal. It made me feel good - taking care of that social obligation. A man really should take his wife to one of those parties every once in a while.
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,