Dennis note: Here is the last of a two-part humor story. This “Rich and I” story was first published in the Columbia Basin Herald in the early 1990s. We backtrack a bit and then continue with the story. Enjoy.

Rich and I had hunted Thanksgiving morning each year as part of a tradition we made up in order to go hunting on a day it is traditional for a family to be together all day. It was the easiest “Mom convincing” I ever conducted.

“But Mom, the pilgrims went hunting on Thanksgiving Day,” I said. “Why can’t Rich and I?”

Thanksgiving morning was cool and crisp with a new two-inch blanket of snow on the ground.

I gave T.P. and his buddies the plan of attack at the edge of the standing cornfield.

“One of you will go down the left third, one down the right third and T.P., you go down the middle. If you see a pheasant running down the corn row, try to flush him. If he won’t flush, take him on the ground with a head shot.”

“You boys want to join us?” T.P. asked.

“Thanks, but I have chores to do and besides we can get pheasants anytime,” Rich said.

We made sure they were positioned correctly, gave them the start signal and watched them disappear into the cornfield. Rich and I jumped into the car and drove to the far end of the field.

T.P. and his buddies chased the pheasants out of that field and into our sights. It was great shooting. We took six pheasants in seven shots. Rich missed once.

Rich noticed T.P. and his buddies made it out of the field as we were driving away.

“Look, T.P. is waving with a clenched fist, must be some sort of senatorial wave. I wonder if they got any birds,” he said.

Dad wasn’t smiling when he got off the phone that evening.

“Get your coat son, we’re going downtown.”

We arrived at city hall at the same time as Rich and his dad. The four of us walked into the traffic courtroom together. Inside the room was the chief of police, the high school principle, T.P. and his buddies and Miss Thomas.

“Not fair that we have to be in the same room with Miss Thomas on a holiday!” Rich whispered to his dad.

“Yeah!” I pitched in.

“Just be quiet, boys,” my dad said.

T.P. looked Rich and me over and addressed the small gathering of constituents as if he were addressing the entire United States Congress.

“I present to you two boys who lied to me. They said they had chores to do and couldn’t go hunting. They shot my pheasants. I have here seven empty shotgun shells that prove they shot seven times. They made me walk through a cornfield that cut my hands and face. What do you boys have to say for yourselves?”

Rich and I were into watching Perry Mason in those days. We now had a chance to present our case in front of important people and in a real courtroom, too. We bowed slightly to the principle and chief of police and began our side of the story.

“I did have chores to do and Dennis helped,” Rich said.

“There are seven empty shotgun shells because Rich missed once,” I said.

“T.P. walked through the cornfield because he is our public servant and he offered to serve us any way he could,” Rich said.

“But you shot my pheasants,” T.P. shouted.

“No T.P., those weren’t your pheasants. Those pheasants were a surcharge Rich and I imposed on you for showing you where the pheasants were.”

The room was very quiet, uncomfortably quiet. The chief of police was the first to laugh. Then the principle and T.P. and his buddies and our dads, then Rich and I.

Everyone was laughing, except Miss Thomas, who was sitting there prim and proper as ever.

T.P. shook hands with Miss Thomas and remarked, “You’re doing a good job with these boys. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, Senator Bigbottom,” Miss Thomas said. “At your insistence, I’ll make sure these boys get an extra dose of my attention.”

She then glared at Rich and me and left the room.

Rich and I offered to guide these political hunters during the remainder of our vacation. We helped T.P. and his buddies shoot limits of pheasants, a few ducks and a couple geese. We would have gotten more birds if T.P. hadn’t babbled so much.

T.P. made Rich and me promise not to go into politics. Rich told T.P. not to worry, “Neither one of us can babble as well as you do, T.P.”