The Major

It was after 5 pm when I visited Major Nathaniel Pea-body (USA, ret.). I intended to invite him to an evening at his favorite German restaurant.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said as he opened the door and ushered me into his apartment. He seemed preoccupied. Paying no further attention to me, he returned to his wingbacked chair and then began to act in such a peculiar manner that he alarmed me.
Without another word—or any further acknowledgment of my presence—he drew his lips into a small open circle, sucked air through his nose and began to snort. “I can’t seem to get it right,” he said abstractly and then repeated the strange sounds. To say the least, his behavior was bizarre. Some rational explanation would, I assumed, be forthcoming.
I sat patiently waiting for the explanation while he continued his snorting, changing the pitch from tenor to bass and the rhythm from staccato to slow funereal phrasings, but always shaking his head in dissatisfaction. “I just can’t seem to get it right,” he repeated aloud, obviously for his own benefit and not mine.

“Can’t seem to get what right?” I inquired. Apparently, my question didn’t register with him, as he didn’t answer.
Instead, the Major looked at me and said: “The sun has been over the yardarm for a goodly time, young man.” This was “Peabodyese” for: “I believe it is time for a dollop of the single-malt.” I went to the kitchen, retrieved the liter of Macallan from its hiding place beneath the sink and was in the act of getting ice cubes from the refrigerator when I again heard a series of disgusting grunts coming from the living room. It was disconcerting.
What was even more disturbing was Peabody’s refusal to accept my invitation to dinner. I’ve known the man for years, and this was the first time he had declined an opportunity to enjoy ox joint and sauerkraut—to be followed by cigars and libations. Something was terribly wrong, but I was afraid to ask him about the reason for the snorts that periodically punctuated the rest of our early evening conversations.
I could not help but recall my experiences in the practice when I was newly out of law school. Clients were hard to find, and I was happy to have any at all—even when it meant representing poor, confused creatures at commitment hearings. Recalling the bizarre actions of those clients, I now wondered if Major Peabody might be losing his sanity.
After a sleepless night, I determined a course of action: I would seek the assistance of Dr. Carmichael. Though he was a medical doctor, I suspected he would be able to recommend a competent psychiatrist and, I hoped, assume the responsibility of convincing the Major to see him. I met with the doctor the following morning.
In answer to his question, I told him I suffered from no noxious disease and that it was the Major who needed help. Dr. Carmichael sighed, shook his head and said: “I’m sorry. I will not go bail for him. You’re the attorney. You get him out of whatever mess he’s gotten into.”
I hastened to assure him that the law was not after Peabody. I told him I believed the Major might be taking leave of his senses. Carmichael leaned back in his chair and admitted he had long suspected this day would come. When I recounted the specifics of the Major making those dreadful sounds, the doctor asked if I had mentioned my concerns to Peabody. I said no and reported my fear of the reaction the Major might have had if, to put it bluntly, I had told him I thought he was a loon and in need of professional help.
“That is, indeed, a risk,” Car-michael agreed. “The medical journals have printed studies classifying reactions to such accusations. Some people calmly accept them as fact. They react by considering their nuttiness to be a qualification for public office. They run and are elected. The Senate is full of them. Just look at the ridiculous gun-control legislation they propose. Other people immediately kill their spouses and expect me to help get them off by giving evidence of their insanity.
“You were wise to keep your suspicions to yourself. I’ll take over from here. In two days Peabody and I are leaving for a duck hunt in Florida. I will carefully observe him and take appropriate steps if involuntary commitment is necessary.”

It was midmorning, and the two men were walking from the edge of the Florida marsh toward a truck parked in the pines on the adjacent higher ground. Major Peabody was carrying the shotguns and Doc Carmichael was following with a bag containing their daily limit of ducks slung over his shoulder.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Nate.” Doc Carmichael said. “Whatever possessed you to do it?”
“Elementary, my dear doctor,” the Major replied. “Simply a result of my keen observation skills, my unrivalled imagination and my superior intelligence.”
“Please don’t continue. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Alright. Do your best to concentrate, and I’ll try to explain it. When all is said and done, the primary motivating forces that control all forms of life are food and sex.”
“Agreed.”
“Usually we can’t hunt during the bird mating seasons.”
“Agreed.”
“That means we must rely on food to attract ducks.”
“Agreed.”
“You’ve hunted turkeys on Tom Rosenow’s land in Wisconsin. Do you remember his automatic corn feeder and how the turkeys were conditioned to appear within minutes after it had gone off?”
“Yes.”
“Why did the birds behave that way?”
“Food?”
Peabody shook his head in disbelief. “No, you idiot. If it were merely food, the turkeys would nest under the feeder and never move away from it. They came to the feeder when they heard the sound of the automatic feeding machine. It was the sound that told them the corn had been scattered.”
“I see, but … ” Peabody held up his hand, silencing the doctor, and continued his explanation. “For decades Clevis Dewlap and his Florida progenitors have owned this land and grown hogs on it for food and for a cash crop.”
“So?”
“They raised the hogs by turning them loose in the woods and letting them fend for themselves. It’s still a common practice. The hogs usually feed on acorns and other wild foodstuffs. In addition some farmers will feed them corn to fatten them up. Clevis is one of them. He brings bags of corn down here and dumps them out next to the marsh. It’s where the hogs come for water. Clevis has no use for an automatic feeder. The ducks, therefore, have no machine-created whirring sound to advise them precisely when the corn has been put out for the hogs.”
Carmichael experienced an epiphany. “Aha,” he said. “I see. I see. That’s why you kept grunting and snorting. It’s the kind of sound a hog would make when it’s eating. Your snorting was a duck call. It told the ducks that Clevis had brought corn to the edge of the marsh and the hogs were eating it. That’s why they decoyed so well.”
Peabody smiled.
So did Carmichael. “Let’s not tell your lawyer,” he said. “We’ll keep him guessing. It will drive him nuts.”

Galen Winter’s favorite Major stories have been collected and anthologized in The Best of the Major, available for $25 (plus shipping) from 800-685-7962; www .shootingsportsman.com.