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DOG BITES MAN; MAN SHOOTS HIMSELF? |
Poetic justice in the news
cheers the dreary soul
By PATRICK McFADDEN
of TheColumnists.com
Print journalists are an underappreciated breed.
No, really. Very rarely do they get the notice they deserve for unearthing stories that shock you out of your morning complacency.
There you are, midway through your first cup of coffee, the fog of a well-deserved slumber draining slowly from your gaze, and suddenly you are bolt upright in your chair, transfixed by the human drama unfolding on the newsprint before you. That’s hard for the inkstained wretches to do, and success calls for the tipping of one’s hat.
Without the hard work of one of Washington’s finest, for example, I never would have been treated to the glorious saga of Raymond “Raven” Poole.
Raymond, undoubtedly on the short list of Western civilization’s great thinkers, called his wife at work a few weeks ago. Now, a transcript is, alas, not available, but as closely as I can work it out from the report in the Washington Post, the following was the gist of their conversation.
“Debbie?”
“Yes, Raven, my sweet?”
“Forgive me if I dispense with the usual pleasantries and inquiries into the day’s events. But urgency dictates a certain terseness on my part. Bailey, your Chinese Shar-Pei...”
“Oh, how is the sweetest, most precious, bewoved wittle doggy woggy in the whole wide world?”
“Well, now we reach the nub, so to speak. As I was saying, Bailey, about whose disposition you appear to hold an overly generous view, has just seen fit to nip me on the hand.”
“Oh dear!”
“Quite a frightful bite, actually. I am appalled by the animal’s cheekiness.”
“Oh dear!”
“Yes, I thought your reaction might run along those lines. At any rate, I have decided to kill the little tough. We have to keep our four-legged friends in check.”
“Raven, wait! For heaven’s sake! Stay your hand!”
“You may keep your entreaties to yourself, mistress of brutish Shar-Peis. Nothing shall dissuade me. When you return to our palatial mobile home this evening, you shall find a contented husband midway through a largish jar of Wild Irish Rose’s finest vintage, and one man-eating hound, recently deceased. Toodles.”
Debbie, upon hurrying home with what I can only assume was all convenient speed, discovered her betrothed lying in a pool of blood, having been shot in the abdomen.
Now, at this juncture in this sordid tale of fur and violence, I found myself wondering precisely what sort of dog lovers they have in Winchester, VA. Evidently bursting into mobile homes and shooting would-be Shar-Pei assailants is the usual way in certain of the proper trailer park circles, I thought to myself. What is the world coming to, I wondered.
But no! This was not the work of an outsider!
Shortly after ending his undoubtedly animated conversation with his wife, Raymond must have cast about the mobile home, searching for a convenient means with which to seek the offending pooch’s demise.
Eureka! Raymond found his gun! A combination small-gauge shotgun and .22-caliber rifle was apparently readily at hand. (I myself have three of these handy gadgets. They’re quite the thing for the dashing young hunter of small game, don’t you know.)
Victory was within Raymond’s reach at this point. Tragically, his fervent desire to dispatch this Hound of Hell appears to have gotten the better of him. Whether from a lack of proper instruction in the use of such implements or a desire to conserve ammunition should a grouse or pheasant suddenly decide to put in an appearance, Raymond grasped the barrel of the aforementioned weapon firmly, and was apparently bludgeoning his mortal adversary with the rifle butt.
Well. I am saddened to report that they evidently don’t make combination rifle-shotguns like they used to, for the weapon in question discharged after what was destined to be mighty Raymond’s final swing, leaving Raymond’s abdomen no better off for it. Ah, I neglected to mention that the improvised club was loaded, did I? Hoist on his own combination rifle-shotgun, you might say. I might say, at any rate.
Rest assured, Raven, wherever you are, you will not soon be forgotten.
For, in the Washington Post’s admirable stable of staff reporters, there is one who stands apart. Ian Shapira, the correspondent who penned the Post’s account of this dog-shoots-man story, spared no effort to bring us the hottest stuff.
This newshound nonpareil turning up such gems as the following memorable quote from Raymond’s mother: “Raymond was a very intelligent man, but he didn’t always use his intelligence in the right way.” (I think that is a fair assessment of the situation, don’t you?)
The Post’s editors know their business, as well. Should you ever run up against one of them, be advised it is a sharp and perceptive mind against whom you have set your combination rifle-shotgun. They took one look at Ian’s masterpiece and secured a prominent spot on the front page without delay.
Were I a betting man, in fact, I should be willing to wager substantial sums that Ian’s editor, upon reading this story, took the first opportunity to set a large and congratulatory beer on a bar before Ian’s stool at a nearby saloon.
I know if I ever meet Ian
I shall take steps much along those lines. Cheers, Ian.
©2003 by Patrick McFadden. The illustration is from IMSI's
Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael,
CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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