A Truly Durable Joke, a slice of life vignette Options

[vessq]

A Truly Durable Joke

When we had been on our run down bank owned ranch for a month or so. our new hired man, Leo, brought a relative to visit.

"Boss, I want you to meet my uncle Placido. He works for the government," Leo said proudly.

Placido offered a dry knobby hand. I shook the hand and invited them in for coffee.

Placido was the smallest of Leo's many uncles and the most wrinkled. He ranked near the top of the uncle age range, having slipped well past retirement age and headed cheerfully into his seventh decade. A great good humor emanated from his bright brown eyes. He looked like an amused brown elf bent slightly forward by years of hard labor.

After a few moments of polite conversation, the old man got down to business. He made his pitch with the distinctive accent, wonderful word choice, and delightful phrasing of those who, while comfortable with English, prefer to speak Spanish.

He drew an official-looking document from his pocket and said, "Mr. Quinlan, I have been noticing that those prairie dogs are getting pretty bad in that little horse pasture across from your alfalfa. If you will sign this paper, I will cure your land of prairie dogs".

The document was in two parts from the state agency in charge of predator and pest control. One part was a legal description and granted permission to enter the property. The other part had a blank for the number of acres to be treated and authorized payment from a special fund supported by a tax on livestock growers and farmers.

The legal description and number of acres had been filled in correctly. I suspected that Mr. Gardunio had augmented his income over the years by curing the horse pasture many times.

"You must sign both places," the old man said, "or the state will not pay me".

I signed both places and said, "Mr. Gardunio, I will be pleased to have you cure my land of prairie dogs. But if I were you, I would not cure the land too hard. I would always leave a few so there will be money next year.

The old man seemed to consider my advice carefully then smiled and said, "that's a pretty good joke for a Gringo. And it's true too".

I guess it was a pretty good joke because it became ritual and every year, along in May, for over twenty years, the little man would knock softly on my door, sip his coffee, and make his pitch.

We repeated the durable little joke almost word for word every year until Placido, true to his name, died quietly in his sleep one cold January night.

If prairie dogs knew about holidays, they would have declared one at the passing of Placido Gardunio (1901-1991) because never again would the bent shadow of their number one enemy move slowly from mound to mound with his little tin scoop and pail of poison pellets

The prairie dog town prospers in the post Placido period because the state never replaced him, or any of the other predator and pest control contractors, choosing instead to threaten pests and predators from an office in downtown Denver.

Fortunately for my alfalfa, owls patrolling the wide county road at night and a pair of golden eagles perched atop the power poles by day have forced expansion of the prairie dog town westward, away from my alfalfa field.

Only brave or foolhardy prairie dogs will risk scampering past the owls at night to gorge on my alfalfa. And when they waddle back at daylight, their furry bellies stuffed with the forbidden legume, they make easy picking for the eagles.
I will eventually have to do something about the prolific little devils because they use up land like crazed real estate developers.

But I fear that should I travel to Denver and wander the halls of state government, I might find a door with the words OFFICE OF PEST AND PREDATOR CONTROL stenciled on the opaque glass.

Behind the door and past the defending receptionist, I might find a fresh faced young fellow with a degree in wild life biology who would never dream of knocking on someone's door and shyly offering to cure their land of prairie dogs.

The educated young fellow might leave off shuffling important papers to hear my complaint. He might even decide to use the rare opportunity of meeting an actual taxpayer to brag a little about the increased efficiency of his agency. And maybe even explain the terrific new technology he has at his disposal to control pests and predators.

"Mr Quinlan", he might say, "if you will fill out these papers and sign in all sixteen places, those prairie dogs don't have a chance".

I will not travel to Denver and seek out the humorless young fellow I have imagined. I am afraid he might not understand the "durable little joke" and cure my land too hard.

The owls and eagles would starve out and move on. I would miss them and miss the excited barks of the silly little prairie dogs. Just as every year, along in May, I miss the soft knock of Placido Gardunio.

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Vess, Very well done sir. A warm and yet poignant story. Thank you for sharing.
Steve

[Guest_Ishmael_*]

Great stuff. Several parts made me smile, you have a great way with understated humour. The only thing I would suggest working on is the initial description of Placido. Id get rid of;

"A great good humor emanated from his bright brown eyes." and replace it with a couple of concrete details that might convey the same impression.