DUFFY'S CORRESPONDENCE

Duffy’s writing career began in St. Thomas when he received a letter from the St. Thomas General Services Coordinator. There were two explanations as to why City Hall would write to a dog. The letter told him that the last national census had indicated that he didn’t have a license and it was time to pay up. None of us humans believed that, but Duffy did.

St. Thomas is a small city and dogs getting mail is big news, particularly when the dog writes back, so a reporter from the Times-Journal newspaper came to the house to interview him. He put a hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth and took his picture. Duffy was pretty patient about the whole thing, but he didn’t have much to say. The reporter also interviewed Mr. Lindsay at city hall. His explanation was that someone had taken Duffy to the free rabies clinic and had given them Duffy’s name instead of their own. Our daughter, Barbara had actually taken him to the clinic and because he was the one getting the shot, when the Vet said, “name please”, she said, “Duffy.” A natural mistake, I would have done the same thing. At any rate, the letter came addressed to Mr. Duffy at 42 East St., so Duffy felt it was only polite to respond. Duffy was like that. They published his picture, his letter, and a write-up in the newspaper and Duffy became the most famous dog in the city for a while.

Shortly after that, we moved to a farm down on the Lakeshore Road. Duffy loved it there, once he got used to it, and so did I. He must have got the writing bug pretty bad in the city, because he began writing to the editor of the Port Stanley Beacon and they became quite close friends. He introduced us and I got to know him quite well myself.

Duffy hated anything that made loud noises such as motorcycles and snowmobiles. It’s funny though; he didn’t mind lawn mowers at all. One day a snowmobile cut through our yard a little too close to the house. This insult was too much for him to bear and he ran out and grabbed the track with his teeth. When the snowmobile had finished with him he was badly injured. We used an old wooden door from the barn for a stretcher and placed him in the back of the pick-up truck and drove him to the Vet. They wired and pinned his broken jaw, set his dislocated hip and we brought him home again all bandaged up. He seemed to get better for a while, but gradually he went downhill. His jaw and hip healed, but he never recovered mentally. When his sight started to go and all he could do was lay in a corner trembling, I had no choice but to take that last sad trip to the Vet. And so it was that Duffy’s pen was silenced.

Regrettably, his habit of using the dictionary term for his female friends is sometimes disturbing to those who have become accustomed to hearing the word used in an abusive sense in regard to humans. I spoke to him about this many times, but he always insisted that referring to his friends in human terms, would be subjecting them to an indignity he would rather avoid.

So, Duffy, wherever you are, these are your letters, forever enshrined in the realms of Cyber-space for the whole world to see. Enjoy.

Mr. William Lindsay,
General Services Coordinator,
City Hall, Talbot Street,
St. Thomas, Ontario.

Dear Mr. Lindsay;

Your letter arrived the other day. I must say I was surprised and pleased. I don’t get very much mail. In fact, as near as I can recall, yours is the first letter I have ever received. I turned the dog license part of it over to the boss. Since my funds are quite limited, he usually pays for things like food, vet bill and licenses. If you would like to bring your records up to date over there, his name is Don Edmiston. He lives here at the house with us.

To be perfectly honest about it, I did see one small error on that notice. I’m a male dog, not a female. What’s more I’m still a bachelor. I thought we were going to be able to do something about that last week, but it didn’t work out. I met this nice little bitch down on the corner and boy she just knocked me right over. Everyone was against it right from the start. I’m confined to the yard as a rule, but I just had to see her. The fence isn’t very high, but being a poor jumper, I climbed it. Actually, I’m not much of a climber either, but oh! Mr. Lindsay, this bitch was something else. I rose to heights I never dreamed possible.

Well, this really turned everybody right around at our house. They just couldn’t figure out how I was getting out of that yard. They never would have guessed that a collie that was too dumb to jump would ever learn to climb. Last Saturday the boss spent most of the morning spying on me. I got away twice, but he finally caught me climbing the fence. Well sir, that did it. He fixed the fence and the romance was over. It was sad. I cried all day. Yes, Mr. Lindsay, I’m a male dog and if I could just get out of that yard for an hour, I’d prove it.

Well, I’d better not sit here telling you all my troubles. I’ll bet you have plenty of your own down there at city hall. It looks as though you have a real problem with the Federal Government. They’re always getting things mixed up. That list they gave you is a list of dogs, not dog owners. By the time they get that straightened out, it will be time for a new census. I never could figure out how they could snitch on us dogs and not say a word about all those marijuana farmers they found. Not that it matters to me. Except for medicinal purposes, I don’t use marijuana. Any dog will tell you that grass is good for a sick stomach. Now that you’ve taken to writing dogs, you’ll probably get a great deal more good advise like that. I asked the boss to include the license fee with my letter. The tightwad will likely take advantage of the two-dollar discount.

Yours truly,
Duffy.




November 28, 1977

Dear Mr. Prothero;

One of my friends in Port Stanley said that you might enjoy hearing from a dog. They tell me you’re a great defender of the canine point of view. I always feel a certain warmth for people who appreciate letters from dogs. When I lived in St. Thomas, I occasionally wrote to Bill Lindsay at the city hall, but I haven’t heard from him in some time. He’s probably miffed because I left town without telling him. I suppose it was unkind of me after all the interest he showed in me while I was there. There wasn’t time to say goodbye to half my friends. The old man simply marched into the house one night and announced that the city was no place for man, child, or beast, and moved us all to the country. It was sad.

After we got used to it, we were all glad we moved. It’s lovely in the country and I enjoy being a real watchdog. Although, since I watched half the people in St. Thomas pass through our back yard, I suppose you might say I was a watchdog there as well.

I like the work, but all that barking is not as easy as it sounds. On the other hand, the job has its lighter moments. In fact, some of them are down right funny. For instance, the night someone came to the door at three in the morning. Naturally, I barked. That’s the sort of thing any decent watchdog would do. Thinking I wanted out, the old man came trotting downstairs dressed just the way the stork dropped him. His hand was almost touching the doorknob when he heard a little knock on the other side of the door. Well, that woke him up in a hurry. Back upstairs he tore, bare feet and bare everything else just flying. Naturally, I thought it was a great deal funnier than he did. I don’t mention it anymore.

St. Thomas didn’t offer much in the way of a social life for a fenced in dog, but here in the Port Stanley-Union-Sparta area, I have made many good and fast friends. Mostly fast. The very first friend I made was the sweetest little bitch a dog could ask for who lived about a mile down the road. Beejee was her name. Ah, sweet Beejee, dear sweet Beejee. Her memory saddens me even today. I’ve never spoken to anyone about Beejee, but it may do me good to tell you about her now.

She was part Beagle, so I suppose that’s how she got her name. Since she was small in size, she probably seemed an unlikely mate for an adult collie, but I have found that size is not everything. She and I were great friends from the beginning. She was warm and tender, and every once in a while she wore a heavenly perfume that smelled like all the flowers of summer bursting at once. Sometimes she got all cuddly, and- well, frankly, one day I discovered I was no longer a bachelor. I was so proud of her when the puppies came. I’ve never seen such a perfect little mother. She spent three quarters of her time feeding those little gluttons. Even though she lost weight and nearly wore herself out, not once did she complain. “Look Duffy,” she would say. “Aren’t they sweet. See how fat they are. Don’t they look healthy?”

They certainly did, I had to agree. Fat, healthy and just like me. (Strange how thoughts of Beejee always move me to poetry like that.)

They all looked exactly like me except for two little black ones, but I forgave her that one small transgression, besides, it wasn’t her fault. Black Gilligan, from down the road, who was certainly no respecter of the married state, chased her right into her doghouse. But Black Gilligan’s pups were cute and we loved them too. As the summer wore on, I found it difficult to believe that two dogs could be so happy; then suddenly our lives changed.

It was the weekend of the annual hawk migration. Since Beejee lived right on the corner of the Hawk Cliff Road, her boss thought it would be a good time to put up a sign advertising the pups. The activities had been so well publicized in all the newspapers, people were there from miles around. Of course, the hawks failed to show up again, but that never seems to matter much. If the hawks ever get it right, if they show up just once when they’re suppose to, they’ll scare half those people to death.

Anyway, some of the people had driven long distances and not wanting to go home completely empty handed, they picked up a puppy. When the weekend was over, all of our babies save one were gone. She was a cute little bitch who looked exactly like me. They called her Buffy. I thought that was a nice touch. However, soon even she was gone. Poor Beejee was a long time getting over that. I was kept busy with all my watching, but she ran all over looking for her babies. She was never the same again.

Late that winter, I was hanging around the house, just watching, when I caught a whiff of her perfume. (My! How she poured it on sometimes!) I made a mental note to visit her that night. When I arrived, although her heavenly perfume still lingered, she was gone. I waited there for three days, neither eating nor sleeping, but she never returned. I know it’s unfair of me, but I have always suspected that the hand of man was involved in Beejee’s disappearance.

Eventually, I returned to my old habit of roaming at night. I had often noticed a truly handsome St. Bernard across the road from Beejee’s house, but being so involved with Beejee, I had never paid much attention to her. As I passed her house one night, she was outside. Since I always try to be a good neighbor, I stopped to say hello. She proved to be the unfriendliest bitch I have ever met. As a matter of fact, she told me to “hook it,” whatever that means. Every night for months I stopped to pay my regards, but the same thing always met me. It seemed to me there was something different about her- something I couldn’t quite put my toe on. Even though I’m considered a handsome dog with a decent personality, in spite of everything I tried, nothing warmed her up. I noticed that she never wore perfume the way Beejee had, and I began to suspect the hand of man in this case as well. I was never able to determine what it was, but that bitch seemed strange- somehow altered. Finally, I gave her up.

Well Listen, I’d like to tell you about Princess and a few more of my friends out here, but I have some rather pressing business, perhaps another time. Right now, I have a formal complaint to lodge about those dog traps I hear they’re using out in Southwold, my watching is piling up out in the yard, and some idiot just pulled in on a motorcycle. I hate motorcycles. The old man had one here for a while, but I think there was something wrong with it. It kept falling on top of him. He finally gave up on it and sold it. What a relief. Now one of the kids has one. It seems to stand up a little better, but it still sounds like a bulldog with a head cold. I saw the kid ripping around the yard the other day standing on the seat. He’s as stupid as his old man.

Drop me a line sometime, Mr. Prothero, I’d love to hear from you. I haven’t had a lick of mail since Bill stopped writing.

Only Me,
Duffy





Dear Mr. Prothero;

Things are a little slow around here with corn all off and the fall plowing finished. Since I have no one to bark at, I may as well catch up on my correspondence.

The last time I wrote, I think I told you about Duchess, my unfriendly St. Bernard neighbor. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only St. Bernard in the neighborhood. I found one over on the next road, named Princess. (You’ll notice how these St. Bernards tend to lean toward royalty.) Of course, Princess wasn’t her real name. She had a pedigree as long as your leg, Frank, and her real name was so ridiculous they just called her Princess.

She was friendly enough. On occasion, she even displayed those same wanton eyes that Beejee had. She wore Beejee’s perfume too. However, whenever she got those roving eyes and started splashing that perfume around, her folks locked her in a cage. My reputation as a climber must have followed me from the city, because her cage had a lid on it.

Except for her pedigree I could have been happy with Princess. She told me it was because of her pedigree that she spent so much time in her cage. I never met a dog that was prouder of its pedigree than she was. She would go on for hours about her ancestors. Black Gilligan told me they were all a bunch of drunks who never went anywhere without a jug strapped under their chins, but I don’t trust him anymore.

She once told me one of her ancestors had crossed the Alps with Hannibal. I had always heard that Hannibal crossed the Alps riding on an elephant and while I could see she had the size for it, I knew she had no trunk. Just trying to be friendly, I asked her at what stage in their evolution had her ancestors lost their trunks. She didn’t speak to me for three weeks.

When she finally got over it and started seeing me again, it didn’t take her ten minutes to get back on her pedigree. She began boasting about the long line of champions she came from. Although it crossed my mind to ask her what they had been champions at, I thought better of it, just listening politely. When she finished, I thought I should say something nice considering all the trouble I had recently got into over her ancestors, so I remarked, “My! Aren’t you an aristocratic bitch though?”

Frank, have you ever seen a St. Bernard’s teeth? Well I have. They are huge and she showed me every one she had. “Don’t you call me a bitch, you cur!” Well sir, that did it. A bitch is a bitch, and that’s what she was. It wasn’t my fault that I was a dog and she was a bitch, but a cur, that was something else. I wasn’t going to take that kind of talk from any offspring of a long line of brandy swilling hillbillies even if she did out weigh me by a hundred pounds. Right then, I didn’t care if her ancestor had ridden Hannibal across the Alps bareback with spurs on, trunk and all, I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “Not only are you an aristocratic bitch, Princess, you’re a tattooed one as well.”

Fortunately, her cage was a stout one, but I split anyway. I never went back. Even with a pedigree as long as hers, she was still ashamed of what she really was. I don’t suppose humans ever get that way.

I heard later she had a litter of pups that looked so much like her that everyone thought they were clones. Rumor had it, they were sired by an import. I think they must have been, for Duchess is the only other St. Bernard around here, and even if she had the inclination (which I doubt), I can assure you she isn’t equipped for it. One thing I’ll say for Duchess, Frank, she may have been a snarly bitch, but she never pulled rank on me the way Princess did.

All dogs with pedigrees aren’t like Princess though. You take Jake, my best friend. He’s a blue merle collie who lives over near Sparta. Jake has a pedigree nearly as long as his nose, but you would never know it to talk to him. He’s as down to earth as any dog you could meet. The night I met Jake, I thought I had met my first genuine mad dog. He was standing in his yard looking every inch a champ. I trotted up and Said, “Hi, I’m Duffy. What’s your name.?”

“Jake,” he replied. “What’s your brothers name?”

Now, I haven’t seen any of my brothers since I was weaned. I haven’t the faintest idea where they are. I have a sister over that way, but I wasn’t in a hurry to admit that. According to the dogs over there, she’s plagued with the same ailment that Duchess suffers from. Although I didn’t think he knew where his brothers were either, I thought I had better humor him. “Which one?” I asked.

“The one standing beside you,” he replied.

I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then I spotted his eyeballs locked on his long nose. The poor dog was cross-eyed and saw two of everything. Naturally, he thought I was twins.

It was obvious as we chatted that here was a fine animal, but I could see he was almost worn out. Since he was a cow dog as well as a watchdog, he was spending half his time chasing cows that weren’t even there. I knew if he didn’t do something about it soon, he would either lose his job or collapse from over work. It occurred to me that his problem was similar to the one humans have when they try to sight down a rifle barrel with both eyes open. I suggested he try closing one eye, but try as he might, poor Jake just couldn’t close one eye without the other. Finally, between us, we discovered that by looking sideways at everything, he could see much better. So from then on, Jake cocked his head off to one side. He certainly looks funny, but he says he would rather see good than look good anyway. Jake and I have been the best of friends ever since. Why don’t you drop out and visit him sometime, Frank. You won’t have the slightest trouble finding him. He’s the only cross-eyed, cocked-headed blue merle in Elgin County.

I wanted to tell you about Blue, but the garbage men are coming down the road. If I’m not out there it will ruin their day. The garbage men and I are at war. Unfortunately, the first time I saw them picking up the garbage, I thought they were taking something the old man wanted. It was a natural mistake. After all, I saw him put it out there with my own eyes. They threw sticks and stones at me- one even kicked me. Actually, it was the worst ten minutes I’ve had since I came out here. Finally, I decided if they wanted it that badly, they could have it. I know better now, but the garbage men don’t, so the war goes on. I just stand back a little further now.

Only me,
Duffy







Dear Frank;

What a miserable day. With the wind blowing the snow around the way it is, I’ve had to keep my tail down all day. I hate winter. The old man threatens every year to move to Tahiti. I sure hope he takes me with him.

Blue certainly likes the snow though. As soon as he saw it starting to pile up, he went ripping around rolling and sticking his nose in the stuff until he was so wet and snowy they wouldn’t let him in the house. He’s not the brightest dog in the world, but he’s been a laugh a minute and I’ve really enjoyed having him around the place. He is a big black Bouvier de Flanders that the folks picked up somewhere about three years ago. I guess they thought I was lonely or something. You have probably surmised by this time that I never get lonely, but he certainly has been a great help with the watching.

I gained quite a reputation in the city as a climber because of that darn fence, but compared to Blue, I’m no climber at all. He’s what you might call a high altitude dog. If they ever call for dog volunteers for a flight to the moon, Blue will be first in line. He got started in the climbing business by following the kids around. They like to play in an old barn that has part of its tin roof rolled back by the wind, exposing the loft inside. It’s great sport for them to climb through that hole and jump off the roof into a snow bank. While watching the kids disappear up the ladder one day, he decided to climb up after them. Of course, when he reached the loft it was empty because the kids had all jumped off the roof. He could see daylight through the hole, so he decided to go out and take a look around. The next thing we knew he was right up on the peak of that barn, looking around as if he owned the whole world.

Everyone thought that was pretty funny until it became clear that Blue was not nearly as good at climbing down ladders as he was at climbing up them. Kids sometimes have a rather direct approach to solving problems and one of them got the idea that if it didn’t hurt him to jump off the roof, it shouldn’t hurt a dog either. While Blue sat there howling about his great predicament, the kid went up and shoved him into the snow bank. From then on, Blue climbed onto that roof every chance he got, sitting on the peak like a king on his throne. Sooner or later he always got tired of the game, or got hungry, then one of the kids would have to go up and kick him into the snow bank again.

Later that winter, he had a little run in with a snowmobile. The old man determined that there was nothing broken, but it was obvious that Blue would be laid up for a few days. My wise old man said, “Well, I guess that will end his climbing for a while.” Two days later he came home from work pleased to see Blue outside. Although he was still limping, at least he was up and around. After supper he came outside and was just about to get in the car when he heard Blue howling. A black dog is difficult to see in the dark and it didn’t occur to him that the dumb dog would be up on the roof, but of course, that’s where he was. Right on his favorite spot on the roof, howling like a banshee.

The old man had sense enough not to push the dog off the roof with his injured leg, even if he was calling him everything but a dog. It was obvious his only other choice was to go up and carry him down the ladder. Well, Frank, that was a sight. I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole seven years. He finally got Blue into the loft, but that was only half the battle. That loft is so full of machinery and piles of old lumber that you have to keep your eyes wide open to get through it in broad daylight. In the pitch black, with eighty pounds of squirming bouvier in his arms, it was all he could do to keep the flashlight pointed in the right direction long enough to find the ladder. I’ll never know how he got down that ladder without killing them both. It’s a good thing all the kids were in the house. I’ve never heard such language in my life. They have a picture of Blue sitting on that roof, but I’d give a whole case of milk bone for a movie of that night’s work.

After supper one night, later in the spring, Blue and I were lying around the house when we overheard the kids talking about flying saucers. At that time, everyone was seeing strange lights in the sky and all manner of funny things. Now Frank, I have been roaming around the countryside every night for years and I have yet to see a moving light that didn’t belong to a set of wheels, or a set of wings. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of talk, but Blue was still a pup and I could see he was upset. I tried to tell him not to take it too seriously, but he was still worried and I know he didn’t sleep most of that night.

A few days later we were lounging around the back yard, Blue was almost asleep, when the Port Stanley foghorn sounded. Blue had never heard it before and he was on his feet in a flash. “Listen Duf! That’s it! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever heard one!” Of course, he had never heard a space ship, or a foghorn, but he dashed across the lawn at a dead run. “Wait!” I barked. “It’s only the foghorn!” But, it was too late. He was off across the cornfield as fast as he could run. Each time the foghorn sounded he stopped, cocked his head and listened, then away he went again toward the noise. When he disappeared into the woods, I thought it would be wise to follow him in case he got himself into trouble. Since I have more sense than to run through a new field of corn, by the time I caught up with him, he was standing on the beach at Port Stanley.

“Look at that darn thing!” he snarled as I ran up. “Look at that thing flashing! It’s just the way the kids said! That’s a space ship if I’ve ever seen one! Let’s get it!”

Of course, he had never seen a space ship, or a lighthouse either for that matter, but he ran down that pier as if pursued by every demon dog in Hades. When I arrived at the end of the pier, he had already broken off two teeth chewing on the side of that lighthouse. That little episode was very embarrassing for him, but he never chased foghorns again. Whenever anyone mentions flying saucers, he just covers his ears and growls to himself.

Well, I guess I’d better get back on the job. I don’t think I’ll have much time to write for a while. Now that the snow is here, I’ll have to keep an eye on the hunters and the snowmobilers. They never hurt anything, but if I’m not out there barking and making a fuss, the folks think I’m not working.

Drop out and see me sometime, Frank, and bring Nancy with you. Just say, “Hi Duffy, I’m Frank.” I won’t bite. And don’t worry about Blue. He does everything I tell him, besides, with two of his teeth missing, he’s pretty careful.

Your old pal
Duffy

FRED'S REVENGE- A short story by Don Edmiston

Arnold and Thelma had just emerged from the clubhouse and were preparing to spend a leisurely afternoon beside the pool when two World War II aircraft buzzed the campground. Since it was the weekend of the annual air show, this wasn’t unexpected. Although Arnold had only seen pictures of them, it seemed clear to him the planes had been Spitfires and he said so to Thelma. Harold, who had joined them, confirmed his judgement. Since Harold is a man who seldom makes absurd statements, I was surprised to hear him declare that even without his glasses he could see they were Spitfires. Without his glasses on, I wouldn’t have accepted his identification on a whole stack of R.A.F. flight manuals. Nor would Ernie, who came strutting by just as they were discussing the merits of that particular breed of fighter aircraft. If the Spitfires had proven to be Snoopy flying an inverted Sopwith Camel, it wouldn’t have made any difference to me, but it seemed important to Ernie to inform the boys they were mistaken. “I flew Spitfires with the R.A.F.,” he announced. “And I certainly know one when I see it.”

I don’t know what the club would do without Ernie. How one man could accumulate such a vast store of information and compress it into one skull without suffering some sort of mental aberration is beyond me. The immensity of his knowledge is a constant amazement to all of us. As if this was not enough, his expertise even extends into the field of sports. He throws the discuss just as well as he throws the javelin and he shoots the put nearly as well as he shoots the bull. Volleyball and badminton are child’s play for him. The first person to get a hole-in-one on our new Frisbee golf course was Ernie. In short, what he can’t do, or doesn’t know, isn’t worth doing, or knowing. We would all have a better chance of swimming the Atlantic Ocean than beating Ernie at anything.

Since Harold, or Arnold were too young to have even been in the war, and since they weren’t accustomed to flying in the face of such authority anyway, they decided to let the matter drop. I really don’t think the identity of those planes meant any more to them than it did to me. Normally, that’s where it would have ended, but unknown to the group, Fred had been lying in the sun not ten feet from them the whole time and had overheard the entire conversation.

Fun Loving, Fearless Fred, a trouble maker from birth, who, as a youth, had absolutely no respect for his elders and grew up to be an impudent agitator without any respect for anyone. Because of this profound disrespect for authority of any kind, he began planning –although he had always thought a Spitfire was a sports car –to have a little fun at Ernie’s expense.

I think it was about three weeks later that he finally pulled it off. On the day it happened, he was occupying his usual horizontal position beside the pool, apparently sleeping. I say apparently, because with Fred you never know for certain. Even when he’s vertical, you can’t be sure. Only two words in the English language can guarantee a reaction from him. One is work and the other is beer. I won’t try to describe these reactions here except to say they are equal, but opposite.

Before long, Ernie came swaggering across the lawn and lay down near him. He said nothing to him, of course, because he thought he was asleep. But, Fred was not asleep. In fact, he was wide-awake, his mind as alert and sharp as it ever gets. Ernie had lain there just long enough to doze off when he was rudely shaken from his slumber. “So Ernie,” said Fred. “I hear you were a Spitfire pilot with the R.A.F. Is that true?”

“What the hell was that!” Cried Ernie in alarm as he jerked upright on the lawn. Fred’s voice has a peculiar other world quality to it that many people find disturbing. Being awaked by him is an eerie experience. This was particularly true in Ernie’s case. As a child he had been told a tale about one of his distant relatives in the old country that had upset him a great deal. While drowsing in the Tower of London in broad daylight, this relative had encountered Anne Boleyn with her head under her arm. The man had never recovered from the experience and Ernie has always expected to see a similar spectre himself. As a result, Ernie is seldom caught sleeping in daylight; so on this rare occasion when he did slip off, he was understandably started by the apparitional resonance of Fred’s voice.

Nothing in this world –or any other one either, for that matter –can prevent Ernie from holding forth on his favourite subject, namely Ernie, and as soon as he realized it was not Anne, he replied.

“Yes I was. I got in three tours before they made me an instructor.”

“Do you ever wish you could get back up there,” asked Fred casually.

“Sometimes.” Ernie was really warming up to his subject by this time. “The way some of these guys fly today they could sure use some advise. Once in a while I get the urge to get up there and show them how we did it when flying really meant something.”

“Not me,” said Fred. “I had all the flying I want during the war.”

“Oh! You were in the Air Force too! What did you fly?”

Fred’s lips barely moved, but his words were like rifle shots to Ernie. “Messerschmitt ME109’s mostly.”

Although the conversation had not been overly stimulating to this point, a large crowd of curious people had gathered on the surrounding lawn. It was apparent to everyone, a significant, historical event was unfolding. Someone mentioned that he had never seen Fred more than four feet from his beer before. It was a fact; he had been lying there without a beer in sight for almost half an hour. We all gained a great deal of respect for Fred that day. If he was suffering any stress because of his low blood alcohol count, he certainly didn’t show it.

I suppose it was his love of practical jokes that made him forget his beer that day. Ruining someone’s day seems to be one of his main joys in life. One evening in the clubhouse, some of the older members were reminiscing about their early days in the club. Fred had only been a member for a short time, so he was only listening. It was a pleasant conversation, most of the members had very fond memories of past events and they were looking forward to many more in the future. For Ted, the park owner, the first few years had been rather difficult. During the conversation he happened to make a casual remark about how he had always bent over backward to please the members. Everyone had forgotten that Fred was in the room, but it only took him twenty seconds to end the conversation. “Well there you go!” Said he. “There’s your problem! I don’t see how anybody could get anything done in that position. Hell, all you can see are treetops and airplanes! Look at all you’ve accomplished in ten years! Think of what you could have done if you’d straightened up!” Ted wasn’t seen around camp for several days after that.

A pleasant, almost carnival atmosphere was spreading throughout the camp. “I have to get my camera!” Shouted Nell, as she ran to her cottage. “If I don’t get a picture of this, no one will believe that I actually saw Fred with the fingers of his right hand and his right elbow straight at the same time!”

Lloyd was giving eight to five odds Fred could lay there for ten more minutes without his beer and members were lined up half way to the clubhouse with their money in their hands. His preliminary calculations had shown, if Fred could hold out, his winnings would pay for his new fireplace chimney, buy two spare chains for his chainsaw and still have enough left over for six cases of Blue. Even if Fred drank half the beer, which was likely, he was convinced he had a good thing going.

Ted was pleased with all the activity, but someone heard him muttering; “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have invited the public, sold tickets and opened the bar.”

In all fairness to Fred, he did look magnificent lying there with his Horn of Plenty around his neck and his medical bracelet glistening against the background of his golden tan. The bracelet was a gift. Several weeks previously, some of the boys had become concerned about him. They felt that people should know what to do if he was ever found sober and unable to function, so they took up a collection and bought him the bracelet. It reads; “In case of emergency, administer 48 ounces of cold Labatt’s Blue orally and shake well.”

Ernie’s initial reaction on learning Fred had been a Messerschmitt pilot was astonished outrage, followed closely by utter disbelief. He was sure that Fred was too young to have been in the war, but the more he thought about it, the less sure he was. He thought about Fred’s wife and wondered why an attractive young woman like Sandy would marry a man that old, but he had learned from experience that you can never tell what a woman might do. Besides, he had known men before who looked younger than their years and considered himself a good example of this.

His confusion was not unreasonable. Years of riotous living and dissipation have aged Fred considerably. It’s difficult for a stranger to know if he is a young fifty-five, or an old thirty-one. When reminded that he looks older than Sandy he says it’s because she was born quite late in life, while he was born at a very early age. Many things Fred says don’t make any more sense than that, but we love him anyway. That may be a bit of a stretch, but at least we accept him.

Be that as it may, one thing is certain, Ernie didn’t love him. As far as he was concerned, he was lying only three feet from the enemy.

“Those Spitfires were quite the airplane,” continued Fred. “Out of 267 planes I was lucky enough to shoot down, only 116 were Spitfires. I was shot down fifteen times by Spitfires and only managed to get three of those Messerschmitts back in one piece. We could all see that the war wasn’t going the way Adolph had promised us it would. We had Spitfires and Hurricanes around there thicker than fleas on a camel’s ass and I was fed up to my false teeth with all that falling out of the sky. Finally, I applied for a transfer to the rocket Corps.”

“’Do you realize how much those planes I’m losing cost’, I said as I handed the application to the Commander. ‘Not to mention all those damn parachutes. I’ve gone through enough parachute silk to build tents for every Bedouin in North Africa’”

“’ You’re too late,’ he said, tearing up the application. ‘All the rocket bases are gone and I don’t care how many planes you’ve lost, Messerschmitt pilots are scarce- even bad ones.’”

“When I heard Adolph and Eva had taken the short way out, I knew it was all over. I grabbed the first Messerschmitt that would fly and headed for Spain. My usual luck held up, of course, and I ran out of gas over France. I bailed out- which was something I had gotten rather good at by then- and spent three weeks hiding out in a haystack.”

Ernie would have run and hid if he hadn’t been suffering from that state of inertia that occurs only in the nonplussed. Although the number of allied planes shot down by German pilots during the war has been well documented; Ernie had never been able to accept the totals. He wasn’t prepared to accept Fred’s totals either. “You don’t even sound German to me,” he finally muttered.

“That’s because I was born in Australia. My father went there in 1913 to look for opals. That’s where he met my mother and they didn’t return to Germany until 1938. By that time I was 20 years old. Naturally, I didn’t speak German very well. Can you imagine all the trouble that got me into? Nobody ever got used to hearing a Luftwaffe pilot speaking German with an Australian accent. I was almost shot down four times by my own side. I spent as much time in Gestapo interrogation rooms as I did in airplanes. The war wasn’t a total loss though- I met Sandy in that haystack. She had been a collaborator and was hiding out from the French too. Gradually, a herd of cows ate the haystack and we both ended up on the end of a French farmer’s pitchfork.”

“Wait- wait just a minute,” croaked Ernie. “I don’t believe a word of this.” His face was only three shades lighter than a mulberry, his throat was making strange bulging motions and big veins were standing out on his temples. I thought he was hyperventilating, but Hilda, who seems to know about such things, exclaimed, “I think he’s having a stroke!” Most of the members usually accept Hilda’s advise on medical matters, except for Fred. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day she told him a good cure for his ingrown toenail was limping.

Ernie may not have been having a stroke, but he was in bad shape nevertheless. His voice was quivering and barely audible as he continued. “I don’t believe you ever were a pilot and I don’t believe you met Sandy in any damn haystack either.”

Fred had done his homework well. At least, he no longer thought a Messerschmitt was a new German cocktail, but he was afraid he had gone too far with the haystack. “Well,” he admitted. “The part about the haystack isn’t true. I was just having a little fun with you. Actually, I met Sandy in a concentration camp. She had shacked up with an SS Colonel during the war and the French were pretty upset about it. The first time I saw her, her head was shaved and she had this big ugly letter C tattooed on her forehead. I married her out of pure pity. Can you imagine anything more pathetic than a bald-headed, tattooed, ex-collaborator?”

Ernie thought he had Fred there and cried out triumphantly. “There’s no tattoo on Sandy’s forehead!”

“I know,” answered Fred calmly. “It cost me a fortune to have that thing removed. They did a pretty good job of it, but if you look closely, you can see it every time she passes a Frenchman.”

This was too much for Ernie. He could see the whole thing was a fabrication and Fred could see the fun was over. Just as Ernie was about to tell Fred what he thought of his little joke, Fred interrupted.

“Actually Ernie, I was just a little kid during the Second World War, but I’ve admired Spitfire pilots most of my life. My fondest hope has always been that some day I would meet one. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am it finally happened. My pleasure isn’t even diminished by the fact that even if you were born in the cockpit of one of the snarling bastards, ten thousand feet in the air in the middle of a dog-fight, those two aircraft Arnold and Harold saw were Spitfires.”

THE BIG BOOK OF POETRY- By Shaya-Lynn McConnell, age 10, grade 5

To My Teacher

Teacher, Teacher
Why are you so nice?
At the beginning of the year,
I thought you were as hard as ice.
But, now you’re melted
And you never felt it.
So at the end of the year,
I might shed a tear.



To My Hampster

My furry friend,
If you ever go away, that will be the end.
In your ball you roll around
Without a sound.
One morning I woke up and you were stiff as a board.
So now you’re in a better place and you’re with The Lord.
Goodbye hampster!


To This Bunch Of Flowers

Oh flowers,
Oh flowers!
You look so nice!
But now you have to pay the price!
You killed the grass,
You wrecked the soil!
So flowers are you ready to be boiled?
If you aren’t, then that’s too bad,
Oh, cheer up flowers don’t be sad.

IN THE SHADOWS- A short story by Shaya-Lynn McConnell. Dedicated to her Grandma and Grandpa

My heart was pounding as I raced to the phone and dialed 911. A Calm reassuring voice asked me to tell them what happened. I caught my breath and started to explain.

It all started when I came home from a party. As I walked past the garage, I noticed that the screen door was closed, but the one behind it was open. My parents were out and they weren’t coming back until I was asleep.

I slowly opened the door and went inside. I saw that there were muddy footprints going around the house. I went upstairs to investigate and I found that the upstairs hallway was dark and the window to the bathroom was open. I went into my parent’s room to see if they had come home early and gone to bed, but there was no sign of them.

I heard a voice behind me. Terrified I turned around. “Who’s there?” I screamed. As I ran downstairs I heard footsteps coming down after me. I ran outside to our neighbour’s house and called the police. They came to the house and searched high and low, but there was no sign of the person anywhere.

That night I slept at our neighbours house and left a note on our door that said: “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m at our neighbour’s house, please come and get me when you get home.”

One hour later, my parents came to get me. I told them what happened and that the police had come to check the house.

The next morning I jotted down what had happened the night before, because I wanted to solve the mystery. (I was really good at solving mysteries.)

The police stayed hidden around the house looking for anything that even moved, but nothing happened.

I went into my house to pack all of my things up because we would be living at our neighbours house until this was over. When I went to my closet, I noticed that there was a tiny hole in the wall and beside it was a little microphone. I took a picture of it and left.

I showed it to a police officer that was escorting me to my neighbour’s home. When we were almost there, I saw someone sneak into the house! The policeman called for backup. They went inside the house and caught him red-handed!

I finally realized how the microphone got there. I had seen a van pull up across the street when I got home from the party. He must have snuck in through the bathroom window and planted the microphone in the wall and got out in time for me to get into the house. He must have spoken through another microphone probably in my ceiling, or something.

Anyway, I got an award at the police station for solving the mystery!

A Little Insanity Can Sometimes Save the Day

Raising eight children can be a great deal of fun. It can also be very difficult and stressful on one salary. Sometimes we had to be a little creative to deal with it. The following correspondence with Ontario Hydro demonstrates one of the ways we used to keep a proper perspective on the situation and maintain some degree of sanity at the same time.


ONTARIO HYDRO
Box 2000, Aylmer, Ont N5H 2T5


January 13, 1977

Mr. Don Edmiston
R.R. 1,
Union, Ontario,
N0L 2L0

Dear Sir:

Re: Account 22-4372445

We have today received your two post-dated cheques in payment of your hydro account. No mention of this was made in your telephone call of January 11, 1977.

We consider these post-dated cheques as a request for extension of payment beyond the period of time accorded other customers. For this time only, we will accept these arrangements, as future extensions may not be granted.

In the past year we noted two cheques have been returned marked “Not Sufficient Funds”. We are no longer prepared to supply service without some guarantee of payment. We are therefore requesting a $100.00 deposit be made before February 1, 1977. Interest will be paid on the deposit, and it will be returned upon establishing a good payment record. If necessary, a suitable payment schedule may be arranged by contacting myself, or Mrs. Bailey.

Yours truly

N. DeMarchi
Office Supervisor
East Elgin Area

ND:mc
January 14, 1977

Ontario Hydro
Box 2000
Aylmer, Ontario

Attention: Mr. N. DeMarchi,
Office Supervisor,
East Elgin Area.

Dear Sir:

This evening’s post brought your letter, which proved to be a fitting climax to a purely wretched week. I’ll spare you the messy details, but believe me it was a bad one. Your letter almost pushed me over the edge. At first I considered taking my shotgun down to Aylmer and having a talk with you; but no, the firing pin was broken. Then I thought I would take Duffy down and say, “Sic ‘im”, but he wouldn’t get in the car. I toyed with the idea of flinging myself into one of your generators, but I didn’t have enough money to get to Aylmer let alone Niagara Falls. That was unfortunate; history would have remembered me as the man who short-circuited Ontario Hydro. That would have been a sparkling finish to an illustrious career, don’t you think? You can see how close to the edge I was. When I recovered what little sanity I have, I realized, because I live in the country, you probably thought I was a rich farmer and you wanted to sock it to me. Normally, that would be an admirable idea with much merit, but I’m not a rich farmer and the sock is empty.

Your letter certainly has me horned on a dilemma. If I give you the $100.00 deposit before February 1, the two cheques you have will bounce like a rubber ball and you’ll turn off my hydro. It’s true, I’ll have $100.00 deposited with Ontario Hydro- earning me interest even, but I won’t have any hydro. Practically everything I own runs on hydro. For instance, the furnace. If it doesn’t have a continuous supply of hydro it just sits there in the basement and sulks, cold and silent. If I try to pay the bill and the deposit, it will still sit there cold and silent, because the oil truck won’t come. The day we traded our gas mantles for a mess of short circuits is a day we’ll all live to regret.

I can tell from your letter that you are a reasonable man, so you undoubtedly appreciate my position. Perhaps you’ll consider a compromise. I would like to suggest that you let us put sufficient funds in the bank to honour our cheques, let us catch up on the bill and then if you are still unhappy at that time, we could scrape up the deposit, perhaps in installments.

You mention some concern over two N.S.F. cheques. Not to worry. That was a temporary situation. The cheques were only short 4, or 5 dollars, as I recall, and we made them good immediately as your records probably indicate. Banks never have sufficient funds anyway. You can’t trust one in a hundred. I hope you can consider this proposal and let me know what your feelings are. If I have to get the deposit before February 1, I’ll have to sell one of the kids. Actually, considering the shape they’re in, to get a hundred bucks, I’d have to sell two.


Yours truly
Don Edmiston
Account No. 22-4372445




ONTARIO HYDRO
Box 2000, Aylmer, Ontario N5H 2T5

January 25, 1977.

Mr. Don Edmiston
R.R. 1,
Union, Ontario.
N0L 2L0

Dear Sir:

Re: Account 22-4372445

I don’t know how big “Duffy” is, but I’m sure glad he wouldn’t co-operate.

Thank you for your letter of January 14, 1977, which was reviewed by our Collection Department. While your payment record still requires us to request the deposit, we are prepared to accept a reasonable arrangement for payment.

Please contact myself, or our Mrs. Bailey by February 1, 1977, to arrange this schedule.

Yours truly,

N. DeMarchi
Office Supervisor,
East Elgin Area.

ND:mc





,

January 29, 1977

Attention Mr. N. DeMarchi
Office Supervisor
East Elgin Area

Dear Sir:

Two letters from a genuine human person within one month. I can scarcely believe it. I’ve received nothing but form letters and computer printouts for so long I had almost forgotten there were still a few people around who compose their own letters. And such a letter- particularly that second paragraph. When Duffy read your first letter he remarked that here was a man of high good humor and compassionate disposition. Duffy is seldom wrong. I’m almost sorry I had the firing pin repaired. However, I have taken down the barricades from both driveways, disarmed the children and tonight we began feeding the dogs again. (Man! They were ugly!)

I’m glad you decided to let us make some arrangements to pay that deposit in installments. I certainly wish Ma Bell were as reasonable. What a misnomer. Whoever named her Ma, sure didn’t know her. That old bitch has never been anybody’s mother. The February 1, date has me a little concerned though. Since it is now January 29, and I’m sitting in the middle of the worst blizzard I’ve seen in a few years, I’m not at all sure I can make the deadline, but please be assured I’ll be there.

If spring ever comes and the sun comes back, if that damn furnace ever goes into it’s summer recess and we can shut that dryer down and start hanging clothes outside, I’ll invite you out here for dinner some night. You can even bring a friend. We have a very large table. Not much on it mind you, but it’s a very nice table, nevertheless. Don’t worry about Duffy. Although he’s a full-grown collie, he’s a real cream puff. He does everything I tell him though so watch it.

All nonsense aside, I appreciate the opportunity to pay the deposit in installments. I’ll be down to see you as soon as I can make it.

Fond regards
Don Edmiston
Account No. 22-4372445

The Pigeon Lady

The Great Pigeon Crisis of ’76 was a time of turmoil in our town. For many years, Montrose has been plagued by a large flock of pigeons that makes its home in the town hall clock tower. There is no doubt, the birds have made a terrible mess over the years, but who could blame the pigeons? The tower provides adequate access, plenty of shelter for nesting, and the park below offers a regular smorgasbord. In short, the town hall clock tower is a natural pigeon coop. Cleaning up the mess these birds made on the building and sidewalk used up a large part of the municipal budget, but was just considered part of the cost of doing business in the town of Montrose.

Of course, the Town Fathers had always preferred that the pigeons make their home in someone else’s clock tower and had tried many times to dislodge them. The most spectacular attempt, and the one which seemed to present the most promise for success, involved installing a contraption in the tower that set off deafening explosions at irregular intervals. The sound it made was remarkably similar to discharging a 12-gauge shotgun in a broom closet. The first time it went off, the pigeons all took flight in great alarm and began circling around the tower. Just as everyone was shaking hands and congratulating each other, the birds landed again. For three days this happened every time the thing went off. By the fourth day, the pigeons didn’t even bother moving. Some of them didn’t even wake up. Of course, it bothered the citizens a great deal more than the birds. By the fifth day the streets were deserted. By the seventh day, when the downtown merchants were on bended knees, begging, the Council voted to remove the contraption.

All previous attempts to find a new home for the pigeons had ended with similar results and were, more or less, harmless, but the ’76 affair took on a far more sinister aspect. In the previous November election, the citizens of Montrose had elected one of the towns three Doctors to Council. At his first meeting, he reported that pigeon excretions contain a microorganism called Histoplasm Capsulatum. “Furthermore,” he reported. “This microorganism is responsible for a pulmonary tract disease in humans called histoplasmosis.” He went on to say that 25,000 people across the country are infected with the ailment every year. You can imagine what a flap this caused on Council. After debating the issue for three full meetings, even though no one could recall a case of histoplasmosis in the history of Montrose, they voted to authorize the shooting of the pigeons under the supervision of the Police Chief.

This decision very nearly brought the town of Montrose to the brink of civil war. Wives and husbands separated over the issue. Brothers turned against brothers, fathers and sons were at each other’s throats. These were terrible times in Montrose. In the middle of all this turmoil, a woman approached me on the street with a petition protesting the shootout at the old town hall. I was not in favour of shooting pigeons and I intended to sign her petition until she went on to describe a strange theory she had. It seems the leaders of her group had spent some time observing the pigeons in Trafalgar Square during World War II. They insisted that their research indicated that whenever structures such as Nelsons Monument are available to them, pigeons prefer them to public buildings. Because of this, they felt the answer to the town’s problem rested not in shooting pigeons, but in providing bigger and better monuments.

All I know about pigeons I have learned from those at the Montrose town hall and a pair that inhabit my barn at home. I told the lady that I didn’t want to see the pigeons shot, but I would have to see much more study done before I would support spending public money to build monuments for pigeons. As near as I can determine, the town hall pigeons are not nearly as discerning as their Trafalgar Square counterparts about where they deposit their excretions. They operate on the roof, the windowsills, front steps, the face of the clock, heads of strangers, in fact, just about any place they feel the need. Those at my home distribute their histoplasm capsulatum with the same reckless abandon as their urban relatives.

To be fair to the petition group, however, there is a sad lack of monuments in the town of Montrose. The pigeon lady, who was deeply involved in the field of pigeon psychology, stressed that this scarcity of monuments was a great hindrance in the accumulation of sufficient scientific data for a study of that nature. Because of this, she was doubtful that any meaningful conclusions would be forthcoming from research carried out in the Montrose vicinity. “Of Course,” she said. “You do have the Naked Mother And Child Statue in front of the library, and the Cenotaph, but being only 10 or 12 feet high, these can hardly be considered suitable for pigeon research.” Evidently, the constant strain imposed by the accuracy and timing demanded by these lower structures discourages the birds.

After my encounter with the pigeon lady, it occurred to me that perhaps my education was not as complete as I thought. With this in mind, I purchased a copy of Reinholt’s book, “Pigeons and Their Habits.” This work was undertaken for the Gugenheim Institute for Pigeon Research in 1483 and is the most comprehensive volume available on the subject. When I spoke to her several days later I asked her what she thought of Reinholt’s suggestion that due to the size of their brains, it was doubtful that pigeons possess sufficient intelligence to make the type of decisions she was claiming for them. She replied that while Reinholt’s book was the most recently published work on the subject, it was after all, an old book. Since it was published only eight years after the introduction of printing into England, she felt it could hardly be considered a reliable source of information. “Besides,” she said. “Recent studies have shown that while a pigeon’s brain is admittedly small, it is a full 0.75 percent of its body weight. The human brain in contrast only represents 0.62 percent of body weight.” I’m not sure how accurate her figures were, but it seems to me that due to the more uniform size of pigeons, figures of this type are more easily applied to them than to humans. Many human beings of truly impressive proportions are complete birdbrains. It’s unlikely that any of this does anything to establish the intelligence of pigeons, but in a way, it does seem to make sense.

In the interest of objectivity, I must admit that I have never witnesses a pigeon operating in the vicinity of a monument of any consequence. It’s highly possible that given more choice they might be choosier. I did observe an eagle decorating the beard on the Lincoln Memorial in Medicine Bow National Forest in Wyoming, but one cannot compare a pigeon to an eagle. Eagles are extremely arrogant and sensitive birds. This one may have been simply retaliating for some real, or imagined slight by the U.S. National Parks Service. Under ordinary circumstances he may not have been nearly so particular about the location of his toilet.

The shootout at the old town hall never did happen. I think it had more to do with public liability than the pigeon lady’s petition, but one can only admire the work that groups like hers are doing in the difficult and time consuming field of pigeon research. Consider the concerned biologist who discovered that a pigeon excretes two and one-half kilograms of feces annually. I don’t think most people realize what you would have to do to extract that sort of information from a pigeon. Such dedication is truly remarkable.

The pigeons are still at home in the Montrose town hall clock tower, but the Pigeon Lady’s gone. It seems, her work here is finished.

The Shadow Of the Hawk

Although the atmosphere was somewhat marred by the flies swarming around a dead fish one of the kids had left lying on the back porch, it was one of those perfect Saturday mornings. Birds sang cheerfully, warm sunshine streamed through the windows and the smell of bacon, eggs and coffee hung in the air. Not even the thought of dealing with the raccoon that was slowly eating the fascia board on the sunroom could dampen the man’s spirits as he sat down to breakfast.

“My! Isn’t this a lovely day!” he exclaimed to his wife, who was already seated across from him reading her newspaper. “I think I’ll just weed the flower bed, mow the lawn and spend the rest of the day in the hammock drinking beer.”

“That’s nice dear,” she replied without interest from behind her paper. She knew that was all he ever did on Saturdays anyway. Except every so often he took his field glasses back to the woods with some other dummies and spent the day watching birds. She didn’t think much of either pastime, but she consoled herself by thinking that was the sort of thing that all dummies did and let it go at that.

As he made his first jab at his egg yolks, a large Red-tailed hawk landed on the kitchen windowsill. "Well for heaven’s sake!” He exclaimed. “A big Red-tailed hawk has come for breakfast!”

“That’s nice dear,” replied his wife, still reading the funnies. “Why don’t you set another plate?”

Ignoring her, the man ate his breakfast while the hawk sat on the windowsill staring at him. The bird didn’t make a sound, didn’t ruffle a feather, but not once during the meal did it take its eyes off the man. The hawk had a certain ominous presence as it glared at the man and before he had poured his third cup of coffee, he had the uncanny sensation the bird was harassing him. “What in the world does this hawk want anyway?” He asked himself aloud.

“I’m sure I don’t know dear,” answered his wife. “It’s your friend not mine.”

As he slowly sipped his coffee, the man watched the hawk out of the corner of his eye. Although there was a pane of glass between them, he found it increasingly difficult to look directly at the creature. He had never been close enough to a hawk to notice what piercing eyes they have and as each moment passed the hawk's eyes seemed to grow larger, more glaring. His cup slipped through trembling fingers, hitting the table with a clamorous, clattering crash. “Be careful dear,” scolded his wife. “You don’t want your new friend to see your bad manners, do you?”

“You dumb broad!” He screamed, as he dashed for the bathroom. “Can’t you see this damn bird is out to get me!”

Standing with his back to the locked door, and away from the fierce gaze of the hawk, he began to settle down. Before long he recovered enough to walk to the medicine cabinet and remove his shaving kit. It was unusual for him to shave on Saturday, but today he needed an excuse to stay in the bathroom longer. As he spread the contents of his shaving kit on the vanity beside the sink, he thought how foolish it was to get so upset over a bird on his windowsill. I must be working too hard, he thought, maybe I’ll spend the whole day in the hammock.

Feeling much better, he lathered his face and began to shave. Suddenly his blood turned to ice water, much of which ran out the gash he put in his chin, for there, in the mirror, sitting motionless on the bathroom windowsill was the reflection of the hawk. For the first time in his life the man knew the cold clutch of fear. “Am I losing my mind?” He asked himself. “This is impossible! That hawk just can’t be there!” It must be those mushrooms we had last night, he thought, perhaps I need a cold shower.

As the refreshing cold water washed over his body, he began to feel confident the hawk would be gone when he finished. His spirits were also considerably raised by the thought of drinking beer in the hammock all day. Soon, he was actually whistling one of those tuneless tunes so favoured by people in the shower. As one hand shut off the water, the other reached through the curtain pulling a towel off the rack. I think I’ll just dry off in here this morning, he thought, reluctant to admit to himself that he was afraid to come out.

By this time his wife had finished her newspaper, washed the dishes and chased the raccoon away from the sunroom. She began to wonder what was taking so long in the bathroom. Although she had become accustomed to his strange ways many years ago, she thought his behaviour this morning more peculiar than usual. “What are you doing in there?” She yelled through the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”

The man still wasn’t sure what was going on with the hawk and he knew he wouldn’t get much sympathy from her anyway. He certainly wasn’t prepared to tell her he was afraid of a bird. “Of course I’m all right!” He shouted. “Give me a break! I’m just taking my time this morning! If you want to do something useful, get me some band aids!”

Taking his time, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to get the Band-Aids. He’s been in there long enough to shave and shower the Dallas Cowboys- Cowgirls and all. I wonder what he’s cut now.

Still in the shower, the man finally mustered enough courage to draw the curtain far enough to see the window. “My God!” He cried. “It’s still there! What did I ever do to this hawk anyway? Nothing, that’s what I did! Nothing! I don’t hunt! I’m always kind to animals! I’ve never hurt a bird in my life! Why, I’m even kind to children!" His so recently showered body became drenched with cold sweat. Frantically, he snatched up the towel, dashed to his bedroom, slammed the door and yanked down the shade. For five minutes he stood trembling in the middle of the room, afraid to look at the window. As he mopped the sweat from his body, he was thankful that the hawk was unable to see him with the shade down, but as he stole a glance at the window while pulling on his shorts, his mind totally snapped, for there, silhouetted against the shade was the shadow of the hawk.

“You won’t get me, you gocky-eyed chicken thief!” he screamed, as he ran to the front hall closet where he kept his shotgun. “Let’s see how good you are against a load of buckshot! You hook-nosed butcher!”

Of course, the hawk was no dummy. By the time the man burst through the back door in his underwear, slipping on the dead fish and hurtling curses and buckshot to the heavens, the hawk was a mile away. His wife arrived with the Band-Aids just in time to witness this behaviour, which she considered bizarre even for a dummy. She became extremely alarmed and telephoned the local psychiatric hospital for help. When they found him late that afternoon, he was wandering through the woods in his tattered shorts, torn and bleeding, shouting hysterically. “You want me, you Red-tailed Son-of-a-Great Bustard! Here I am! Come and get me! You want war, you’re gonna get war!”

He spent several years in the hospital. His wife went to see him three times a week and eventually he went home. He appeared to be making significant progress until the day an owl flew through his open window. Now he spends most of his time crouching in the front hall closet, clutching the empty shotgun.