Pete-Bob Dix called Ben Reach and Joanne answered.
“Miss Joanne, I need to see Mr. Ben and Doc Nixon urgent. I got a problem only they can fix, maybe, I hope.”
It was a week before Christmas, coming next Thursday.
“What’s it about, Mr. Dix?”
Joanne did not ask that of other clients, but Pete-Bob was different. Ben had been getting Pete-Bob out of scrapes for as long as Joanne has been Ben’s PIC (person in charge). She knew Pete-Bob was a rascal but that her boss would try to fix his latest misdeed, likely a misguided attempt to do the right thing. Pete-Bob said,
“Involves a bird-dog breeding mishap.” That was enough to tell Joanne her boss would be willing to at least hear Pete-Bob’s explanation.
“How about Friday — that’s tomorrow— at four?” Joanne asked, knowing Ben and Doc would be together then.
“I will be there,” Pete-Bob said.
On Friday, as Ben and Sam were settling into Captain’s Chairs in the library-conference room, Ben said, “Pete-Bob is paying us a visit. Don’t know his problem, but Joanne says he is quite upset.”
Sam was not in the mood to hear one of Pete-Bob’s disaster stories if it had possible serious consequences for any one but Pete Bob.
Just then Pete-Bob arrived and Joanne showed him in. He was clad as usual in well-fitting khaki trousers, a latest model Orvis fly fishing shirt and ostrich-skin cowboy boots. His clean shaven face, framed by a graying curly mullet haircut, bore a familiar distressed look.
“Afternoon, Doc, Mr. Ben. Hope y’all are well. Thank you for seeing me.”
“What have you got yourself into now, Pete-Bob?” Sam asked, hoping to avoid one of Pete-Bob’s long introductions.
“This problem was not of my making, Gentlemen.” Pete-Bob opened, a signal it likely was just that. Without further preliminaries, Pete-Bob opened.
“This involves Benny Pace’s first year pointer named Cool Hand Frontseeker. He won or placed runner-up in all the all-age derby championships last season. Turns out his daddy ain’t who his papers say.”
This was a problem common in the field trial world ever since the Field Trial Stud Book announced it would require DNA test results to back up parentage claims for registration. Ben had dealt with dozens of cases where pups had been falsely registered, some by accident or sloppy record keeping, some deliberately. Usually, if correct parentage could be determined and those responsible paid the costs, the error could be corrected. If correct parentage could not be established the pups remained ineligible for entry in sanctioned trials and worthless as breeding stock.
For Cool Hand Frontseeker this result would be catastrophic. His derby year record was putting him in demand as a sire.
Ben cut to the chase. “Pete-Bob, is the correct parentage of Cool Hand Frontseeker known.”
“To a few. But revealing it to the owner of the true pappy is going to be a problem,” Pete-Bob said.
“How so?” Sam asked.
Ben already knew, not the names, but the story without the names.
“Because the owner of the true sire does not like the owner of the dam, so the breeding was done unauthorized by, likely, the handlers of sire and dam, rivals but friends,” Ben said.
Pete-Bob nodded knowingly, affirming Ben’s supposition.
“And am I correct, Pete-Bob, that Sam and/or I know the owners of the true sire and the dam, and you want one or both of us to go to the true sire’s owner and get him (or her) to sign a sire owner’s certificate for the correct breeding? “Ben said.
Again, Pete-Bob nodded.
“And are there other offspring from the unauthorized mating that could be offered to the true sire’s owner to get her or him to sign the certificate?” Ben asked.
Again, Pete-Bob nodded, then said,
“Matter of fact, I have got a male and a female littermate to Cool Hand Frontseeker in the dog box of my pickup parked under the live oak behind Mr. Ben’s office.”
At this point Pete-Bob told the Curmudgeons the names of the players in this drama. Sure enough, the owner of the true sire was a client of Ben and a patient of Sam and a friend of both. And Ben, being a close follower of the field trial world, knew of the feud between the owners of sire and dam.
“Pete-Bob, I am not at all sure we will be able to pull this off,” Ben said.
Pete-Bob smiled knowingly. “Wait till you see the two pointers I’ve got in my dog box. They have been top dogs in the hunt wagon string at Gum Tree Plantation this season and they are beauties” (The brother of the handler Benny Pace was the manager-dog trainer at Gum Tree Plantation).
Ben and Sam finished their drams of The Macallan and Pete-Bob finished his of Crown Royal and Coca Cola while Ben had Joanne get the owner of the true sire on the phone.
“Miss Jane, Sam and I have got a special Christmas present to deliver to you. Would you be able to see us a few minutes tomorrow morning if we drove out to your place?” Ben nodded, signaling the answer had been yes.
So Pete-Bob delivered the two pointers to Ben’s house and put them in his pickup’s dog box early Saturday morning, and the Curmudgeons drove out to the true sire’s owner’s plantation to see if they could negotiate a signing of a sire owner’s certificate for a pointer. They were served Bloody Marys and brunch in the sun room overlooking one of their favorite bream fishing ponds.
At first the answer was “Hell No!” But after the sire owner saw the two gift pointers work for her mounted handler as she, Sam and Ben watched from her mule-drawn shooting wagon, she changed her mind.