The Chronicles of Major Peabody: The Questionable Adventures of a Wily Spendthrift, a Politically Incorrect Curmudgeon, an Unprincipled Wagerer and an Obsessive Bird Hunter. Galen Winter

      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 and was impressed by the animal’s abilities.

      Recently, Alexander’s owner died after struggling with a heart that just wouldn’t behave. His Testament bequeathed the animal to the Major. Peabody couldn’t keep Alexander in his apartment and he soon discovered finding a Philadelphia home for the dog was not an easy task. Few people shared his love of hunting dogs. Man’s inhumanity to dog was more widespread than can be imagined.

      Damnit all, anyway, the Major thought. There has to be a way around this. He considered possible alternatives. He could murder that stubborn, unfair scoundrel - the Resident Agent - and hope the replacement would be more amenable to reason. He discarded that thought for the obvious reason. The possibility of the company sending a reasonable man to replace a murdered building manager was miniscule.

      It occurred to him he could move to another apartment where the landlord didn’t mind a dog pen in the building’s back lot, didn’t mind circles of dead grass where the chemicals in dog by-product made growth of grass impossible for years and didn’t mind dog hair and dog smell in and around a tenant’s quarters.

      No, the Major concluded, it would be impossible to find such a landlord in Philadelphia. He recalled his long ago attempts to convince his own wife of the gratifying enjoyment of association with hunting dogs. She reacted by citing the presence of his Labrador Retriever as a basis for the cruel and inhuman treatment she alleged in her divorce complaint. Her attorney had a hard time convincing her not to name the dog as a co-respondent.

      Peabody thought about again trying to talk his attorney into providing a home for Alexander the Great. It was a good plan, but there were two problems. The attorney knew nothing about dogs. It wouldn’t take a year before Alexander would have been pampered to such an extent that it would be little more than a house pet, unwilling or unable to do the work of a hunting dog. The second problem was more serious. The lawyer had flatly refused the proposition and, worse, he had already convinced the lovely Stephanie to reject any dog sitting proposition the Major might advance to her.

      “Well,” Peabody said as he scratched the head Alexander had conveniently laid in his lap, “I suppose I can call the animal shelter. They might find a good home for you.” Alexander heard and understood. He lifted his head and looked alarmed. Suppose, the dog thought, they place me with some non-hunter. Suppose they give me to a gun controller. I might never hunt grouse again. The Major watched as tears began to form in Alexander’s eyes.

      An equally terrible scenario occurred to the Major. A wire-haired Griffon is much too big to be a lap dog. It is not a handsome animal and few, if any, would go so far as to call it cute. A Griffon is not the kind of dog taken from animal shelters and given to children as pets. Suppose, the Major thought, the animal shelter couldn’t find anyone to take Alexander. They’d push him into a vacuum tank and suck the air out. Alexander’s last moments on earth would be terrible.

      Time was running out and one by one the Major’s options were disappearing. In desperation, he called his friend, Doc Carmichael. “I’ve got a tough problem and I need your help, Doc,” he said. “I’m quite depressed and I don’t know where to turn. I’m beginning to think euthanasia is the only solution left.”

      “I can’t become directly involved,” was Carmichael’s immediate response. “The stupid laws being as they are, I could be charged with murder. I’ll give you a note identifying the chemicals you’ll need and the formula for preparing a dosage. Then you’re on your own. The product is lethal. It will do the job quickly. You won’t suffer much.”

      “It’s not for me, you idiot,” Peabody answered. “It’s for a dog.”

      An hour later, Carmichael arrived at the Major’s apartment carrying the proverbial doctor’s little black bag. It contained a hypodermic needle and a mixture of drugs calculated to propel a 65 pound dog into a painless but permanent sleep.