There is an affluent type of people who dearly love to hunt and fish. In the spring and summer they fish the mountain trout streams, the lakes and the oceans. In the autumn and winter, they hunt dove, quail, waterfowl and deer. They may book a safari in Africa or charter a deep-sea vessel to angle for tarpon. They love their fishing tackle, their rifles and shotguns, their ranches, the NRA and their hunting dogs. They especially love their hunting dogs.
Tomy, Toby and Jerry were brothers who were sportsmen of this type. On his death, their father left them a successful business and trust funds large enough to assure their future comfort. I did business with their company and over the years we developed an easy friendship. We would swap stories and gossip for half an hour and then go on with business.
One day I walked into Jerry's office and found him visibly upset. Earlier in the week, he had come home one evening to find his number one hunting dog dead. The dog was ten years old and the vet had warned Jerry that there was degenerative heart condition. Jerry wrapped his dog in a blanket loaded him in his pickup along with a pick and shovel and a bottle of scotch. Jerry then drove five hours to his hunting ranch and buried his old and loyal companion. Leaving the ranch at one in the morning, dirty and drunk, Jerry was pulled over by local deputy sheriff. On hearing Jerry's explanation, the deputy had him follow the police car to a place where Jerry could drink some coffee and grab something to eat. Jerry then drove home without incident, arriving at seven in the morning. He hung a portrait-sized picture of his dog on the wall behind his desk. "I really loved that dog," he would say whenever he looked at the picture.
About a year later, while having dinner at Ninfa's with his doctor and their wives, Toby suffered massive heart attack and died on the floor of the restaurant.
Two weeks after Toby's funeral, I walked into Tomy's office and offered my condolences. We shook hands and he waved me to a seat. He said, "Damn, I hate funerals...I hate the whole damn shootin' match...the hearse. the limo...the damn coffin...what a waste of money!" Meanwhile Jerry had come into the office and sat down. Tomy reached into the ice chest behind his desk and produced three glasses of ice and a bottle of scotch. It was ten in the morning and I still had a lot of work to do. I poured myself a drink as politely weak as possible while Tomy continued his condemnation of the undertaking business.
Tomy described how one of their hunting buddies who had died had been cremated and the ashes scattered on his ranch...probably saving thousands of dollars.
Jerry told of another hunting buddy, not yet deceased, who had made arrangements to be cremated and his ashes to be mixed with gunpowder. This mixture would be loaded in to twelve-gauge shells (he estimated it would produce about a case) which would be fired on the opening day of dove season. His reasoning being that there would be some enjoyment to the otherwise somber act of scattering the ashes of the deceased.
"I dunno," said Tomy," those ashes and crap might be bad for my shotgun." ( Tomy had very, very expensive shotguns.)
Suddenly brightening, Tomy said, " I know! I'll get myself cremated and have the ashes mixed in with my bird dogs' food, have 'em driven down to the ranch and they can shit me out all over the property...and nobody'll have to wait for the start of any damn season!" Jerry and I looked at one another; Tomy seemed serious and we were stifling our laughter.
Tomy must have repeated his plan to others for soon his wife learned of his scheme. Of course his plan was quickly aborted.
Business reverses over the next few years forced the brothers to draw capital from their trust fund (never a good business model) and finally, three years ago, they sold their business.
I haven't seen the brothers since. I miss our often pointless, if profane, conversations.
You meet so many gray people in life...It's nice to know someone who gives it color...
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