Eddie Hunter is a Georgia native, and has a gift for taking everyday incidents and turning them into something interesting. Funny, too. Eddie is great at building this type of story, featuring his everyday life walking his dog, Willow, and the story of the neighbor with a Great Pyrenees dog is a fine example. It appeared in Eddie’s blog, Chicken Fat. (I just read in Eddie’s blog that he has reached 7,000 posts! Congratulations, Eddie!) I have made a couple of grammar edits to Eddie’s original.
A Great Pyrenees, but not the one in Eddie’s story.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Great Pyrenees Dog by Eddie Hunter
Months ago a new young man took up residence across the street. He drove a big Chevy truck and brought another old antique-looking truck that he put in the driveway. He took the bed off the old truck and painted everything a stark shiny white. Then he apparently lost his enthusiasm and just left a truck bed and other parts here and there on the driveway and in the yard. He also brought a big white Great Pyrenees dog.
As we passed each other in our trucks I would give him a nod or a wave (manly wave of course) and he always looked right through me.
I don't think he had a job and was not in the market for one. He would come and go every day in no certain time frame.
POOF! One day about two weeks ago he was no longer there. He and his newer truck vamoosed. The old antique truck and all its scattered parts are still there and so is the big Great Pyrenees dog.
When Willow and I go for a morning walk before daylight many mornings the big white beautiful dog, behind a chain-link fence, growls and barks like it would like to eat us alive. Before the young man left, the dog sometimes sat out front with the man and the women that normally live in the house. Every time they saw us they would hold the dog so he would not go galloping at us, chomping.
Last night at bedtime I carried Willow out the front door for a last nature call for the night and I saw the women sitting around talking and to her left was the big white Great Pyrenees dog looking straight at us. I studied the space between them and the dog and decided if he quickly decided to leap and go after us the women would not be able to grab him before he grabbed us.
Quietly, we crept back into our front door and through the house out the back door for Willow's last call.
Today, while backing out of the driveway and looking in my rear-view mirror I saw the big white dog sitting in the same place as last night, studying me.
Then I backed into the street and got a closer look: It was not the dog at all. it was a big white garbage bag full, that they were just too lazy to put in their garbage can. The same white garbage bag, I bet, scared us into retreating last night.
Bhob Stewart was a writer and reporter, and also worked on many projects including “Wacky Packs” for Topps Chewing Gum. He was working on ideas for those right up until he died at age 76. His story, “Trigger Finger,” of a trick shooting exhibition at his Texas high school in the early fifties is carefully detailed, and then at the very end, self-revelatory. It appeared in his now dormant, but still accessible blog, Potrzebie.
Bhob Stewart, 1937-2014
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Trigger Finger by Bhob Stewart
Three years ago I had a magazine assignment to do an interview with Rodney Dangerfield. It was one of his last interviews, only a few months before his death.
I asked him about the unusual and offbeat nightclub acts he appeared with during the 1940s and 1950s, before television drove hundreds of those clubs out of business. Dangerfield described a family vaudeville act known as The Shooting Mansfields: “The act consisted of the mother, the father and their two kids shooting things from the stage. Before the show, they'd be in the basement rehearsing--shooting their guns.”
Instantly, I recalled the sharpshooter and his wife who drove into the small East Texas town where I lived from 1952 to 1955. The day this couple arrived to give a performance at the school auditorium in 1954, the high school classrooms emptied as everyone packed into the auditorium to see what promised to be an exciting event. Actually, so little happened around there that any show would have been exciting.
The rifleman's wife arranged various objects and targets on the stage, and then he shot at them while standing in the aisle in the middle of the audience. For one segment of the show, he used a metal disc containing a circle of white ping-pong balls. The disc was mounted vertically on a stand about four-feet high. The wife held her hand flat against the disc with two of her fingers spread apart and a ping-pong ball in the space between. As he aimed his rifle and successfully smashed a ping-pong ball to smithereens, she rotated the disc to the next position, and he fired again. When only one ping-pong ball was left in the disc, he grinned and said, “So... is there anyone here who would like to take her place?” This brought a few chuckles, followed by gasps and guffaws when other students saw that I had volunteered.
I could see he was fascinated by the audience's reaction to my raised hand. He walked over and talked to me in a low voice, asking me a few questions. People in front began twisting around and looking back, trying to hear this conversation. Then he said, “Okay. Go on up there.” I stood up amid much laughing and hooting at the very notion anyone would be foolish enough to do this.
When I stepped onto the stage, the wife immediately began talking to me in a quiet voice, giving me instructions about what to do, where to stand, how to hold my hand flat, and so forth. While she was doing this, the rifleman was entertaining the audience with jokes at my expense.
I stood with my fingers stretched as far apart as possible. He got ready, took aim –- but then lowered his rifle and told another joke, getting bigger laughs each time he did this. My finger muscles tightened as the seconds ticked away. “Wider, wider,” whispered the wife.
The tension in my hand increased. I wondered if a sudden muscle spasm might cause my fingers to snap shut at the very moment he pulled the trigger. Finally, he aimed, and the room fell silent. He fired. The ping-pong ball shattered. I held up my hand, showing all fingers intact. The audience burst into wild applause with screaming and cheering. The wife smiled. The sharpshooter grinned. He shook my hand as I went back to my chair.
Later that week, I wrote about the experience for my weekly column in the mimeographed high school newspaper. To illustrate the column installment I drew a cartoon showing a large drill press-type hole through my hand -- just like the big cookie-cutter bullet holes in Al Capp's Fearless Fosdick.
Years passed. The incident faded into the back alleys of my brain as the decades flashed by. But about ten years ago I started thinking about that day in terms of the present. Between 1995 and 1999, there were a startling number of incidents where students brought guns into schools and began killing their classmates. Every few months, another news story. This prompted some schools to adopt what they called a “zero tolerance policy” – which meant they began to closely examine items they interpreted as weapons or drugs. One six-year-old was suspended because he gave a friend some lemon candy, and another kid was kicked out of school because his mother had placed a bread knife in his lunchbox. A little girl's Looney Tunes keychain was confiscated.
Recalling the sharpshooter, I wondered what schools in the 1990s would allow a stranger to ride into town and aim his rifle at students. But wait! Why would a school allow such even in the 1950s? Why didn't a teacher speak out and say, “Sir! Don't shoot at our students, please! Just shoot your wife, okay?” But no teacher stepped forward. Why?
As I thought about this, the answer suddenly became clear. Certain people must have been told in advance that no real bullets were in the rifle. With that realization, I immediately understood how the trick was accomplished.
The wife used her left hand to hold the disc steady. With her right hand hidden from view behind the disc, she was able to shatter a ping-pong ball at the precise moment the rifle fired a blank. I remembered she had positioned me so that I never got a glimpse at the rear of the disc. With the sound of the rifle echoing through the years, the final pieces of the memory puzzle fell into place.