The Good. The Bad. And The Higham-Hawg.
(Or the destruction of Higham’s book on Errol Flynn)
By Robert Peckinpaugh
30 May 2oo8
It was a beautiful sunny Friday afternoon here in northwestern
Ohio. With the birds singing and flowers blooming, one could
easily tell spring had finally arrived. I was sitting on the patio,
enjoying the sights and sounds of the day, when I suddenly
heard our two dogs begin barking, followed by retching and
other sounds only a dog can produce. I walked out to see what
all the commotion was about, and noticed them hovering
around a pile of tree branches from a recently downed tree. As
I came closer, I spied something peering out at me, and the
dogs. I then could understand the dog’s reactions, as I, too
began to retch and make rude noises. For there, in the
branches, was a Higham-Hawg.
I quickly called for the dogs to get away, but the smell from the
varmint had already caused their quick evacuation of the area.
Zoey, the smaller of our dogs, who thinks she is fearless, was
overcome, as the photo shows. Dutchess took refuge at the tire
of the nearest car, repeatedly doing what dogs do best, when
that particular opportunity lends itself to their bladders.
At once I realized that drastic action must be taken. Higham-
Hawgs have long been known for their deviate life-styles, lack
of manners, and being just plain gross to be around. The
putrid sounds emanating from its mouth every time it grunted,
was beyond words.
I quickly took up a defensive posture, with my Winchester
Model 12, 16 Gauge shotgun, making sure it was loaded with
an ample supply of shells.
I approached the loathsome thing, and its beady, sweaty eyes
appraised me with each step I took. For a minute I thought it
was going to bolt to the nearest Amazon.com Used Bookstore
and take refuge, but it seemed to freeze in its tracks, as I closed
in.
Taking careful aim, I drew a bead on the bugger, and our eyes
locked for a moment…I had a pang of remorse, that lasted
about .2 milliseconds, before pulling the trigger on my old
Winchester –
My first shot winged the Higham-Hawg. It bellowed like a
disgraced author does, after being exposed as a charlatan,
doing a double back flip, and bending over an exposed tree
branch. For a minute, I thought it was a deleted scene from
Deliverance.
I again took careful aim, and let loose the Winchester, which
sounded like the hammers of hell with each shot. Both dogs
had long since taken refuge behind me, wagging their tails at
the blubbering sounds coming from the bush pile. This shot
tossed the Higham-Hawg ass over teakettle, but it still refused
to die.
So once again, I pumped another shell into the old Winchester,
which had seen action going back three generations in my
family, and pumped two shots in quick succession at the
dreaded beast.
Finally, there was silence…only the wind could be heard,
rustling the leaves. The sounds from the brush pile ceased
entirely. I slowly edged forward, with the dogs at my heels,
anxious to see what would reveal itself on the far side of the
now shredded pile of limbs. We then beheld a redeeming
sight….the Higham-Hawg was no more. With the
encouragement of the dogs, I managed to check for a
heartbeat, but found none.
Then, for the first time in my life, I decided to do a
photographic review of the Higham-Hawg. You can see it
below.
And so my friends, ends the saga of my encounter with the
Higham-Hawg. I know that many others still slither
throughout various dark, dank bookshelves, which is a good
place for them. But for this particular one, I can echo the
words of my friend Tom McNulty, who had a similar
encounter, and say, “He’s Dead.”