I made the mistake of telling Bob Piper what I needed.  Word to the wise: If Piper likes you, don't tell him what you need unless you're willing to get out of his way and let him make sure you have it.

Bob Piper runs a repair shop.  My Massey-Ferguson tractor and I are about the same age, and in about the same shape.  Miss Massey was down for the count, and I told Piper that, when I had more money coming in after the first of the year, I'd pay a guy to haul her in to have Ace Mechanic Pat make her well.

A day or two later, my lane alarm went off.  Up drove Bob Piper at the wheel of his roll-back truck, come to fetch Ms. Massey.  I met him at the tractor shed.

Bob, I don't have money for this right now.

I don't give a damn.  I got a bay free and a guy standin' around.

But I can't pay you.

Look.  I just got kicked outta the bird dog club.  I ain't got no place to run my dog.  You let me come out here and work my dog, maybe bring my beagle and rabbit hunt a couple times, let me help you plant feed plots in the spring, we'll call it even.

That didn't sound even to me...but Piper is a tsunami.  The tractor was on the rollback and headed to town before I could begin to gather my tattered dignity.

The tractor was back and running, complete with a nice new seat, ten days later.  A couple weeks later, Piper came and repaired the doors on the front quail pen I'd not used because it wasn't secure.  He had his adult son and a somewhat addled and disinterested beagle in tow.  They set off to hunt rabbits in the alders and down the thick fencerows that lace this old farm.  Toward the end of their hunt, apparently one rabbit zigged when it should have zagged, streaking straight for Neighbor Mike's garage...containing Neighbor Mike and a buddy lounging near the wood stove, in deep conversation.

Later, Piper said that after the first shot, he saw Neighbor Mike's horrified face in the garage window just as he pulled the trigger a second time...two loads of #6's spattering the brown siding on the garage Mike rents from another neighbor who does not like me very much.

As Piper told it to every one who worked or had work done at his shop over the next several months, when a very large and very angry Neighbor Mike came charging out of the garage door bellowing a profane remonstrance, he and his son tucked tail and headed for the car.

I don't do drama, was the line Piper used.

On the day of the incident, that left me to take the phone calls and the heat.

Now what? I love Piper.  But he is never going to wave a loaded gun anywhere near me or mine...neither am I going to take advantage of his friendship just because he made a mistake that disqualified him from taking advantage of his side of our deal.

 But I know Piper; he isn't going to accept the money gracefully.  What to do?

The hope here is that (very) bad poetry, especially if the subject loves attention, is the balm for a bruised ego.   At least that's what we're counting on here...

Ode To A Rabbit Hunter

This check and this poem are for a man named Bob

When Miss Massey was down, he volunteered for the job.

On a cold winter’s day, months away from the spring,

Bob fetched her on the rollback to let Pat do his thing.

Pat cleaned out her fuel line, got ‘er sputtering, then firing,

Hooked up the power steering, untangled her wiring,

And to make long hours farming, without discomfort, to pass

Piper ordered a new seat for this farmer’s fat ass.

With Miss Massey back home, Bob Piper wasn’t done.

He repaired my old quail pen so the bobwhites could run.

He brought out his beagle, stepped aside for a piss,

Then unlimbered his pump gun, his son as accomplice,

For pursuit of wild bunnies that run like mirages

Dash, dart, and hop, and race toward garages.

Now Perry County has a limit on garages, you see,

On brown ones, it’s “Zero,” and if you scare the pee

Out of loafers inside by the woodstove fire,

With gunfire and shot strike, you may raise their ire.

Piper doesn’t “do drama,” so with THAT fateful shot,

Beat a hasty retreat, outta Dodge he did got.

Piper’s told this tale to all who come by,

Admitted his error like a stand-up guy.

For past services rendered, Bob, this check is for you,

Coz as stand-up guys go, I think I are one, too.

~ Henry Wadsworth Shortfellow

Bard of The Flagdale Bottom