Babes

Below is a blog entry from WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 24, 2007.  It occurred to me earlier today that, as I now have the capacity to post pictures, I needed to recycle this entry, adding to it the most important picture ever taken, in order to compliment the most important story ever told.

So we've had this picture for years. My great grandfather was invited to this guy's place in upstate New York for a weekend of drinking and hunting with a few other dudes and The Babe. Something held the Sultan of Swat up in New York City, likely a lethal combination of loose women, booze, and hot dogs. So, upon my great grandfather's arrival, they went out hunting as a group, sans Bambino. And the host, a Yankee pitcher, brings his new hunting dog...

So they're out and about with their manly guns and the dog. They're quietly stalking around the property looking for things to shoot, maim and kill. Typical hunting stuff I guess. The dog sprints into a clearing for what I can only assume was some kind of bird similar to blurry corpse in the picture.  The bird is flushed out and someone fires their gun, only, instead of looking for the dead bird to retrieve the thing as everyone expects, the dog takes off running frantically in the opposite direction with its tail between its legs. Shortly thereafter, they all reach the conclusion that this "prize" hunting dog is gunshy and pretty much useless. More specifically, every time a gun is fired, the dog completely loses it, its stumpy tail goes between its legs and it runs for its life in the opposite direction. Took them quite a while to find it too.

Later that evening, the group shared drinks and a few laughs over this fact. Eventually, he sells the group on presenting the dog to the Babe as a gift, following their hunt the next day. The idea doesn't take much salesmanship because everyone was completely blotto.

The Babe arrives early the following morning and the group goes hunting for the day. At some point the picture my family holds so dear was taken. At the end of the day they present the dog to Ruth as some grand gesture, drink a bunch of whiskey and pass out 1930 or 1940's style. The following morning Babe Ruth is the first one to head back to the city, presumably to indulge in the aforementioned vices. Obviously, he is accompanied by his new "prize" hunting dog. Upon waking, the rest of the group shares a laugh, each picturing the Babe's next hunting trip and the look on his face when his dog abandons him in the middle of the woods upon the first gunshot.

Eventually my great-grandfather gets into his car for the long trip back to Newark. He ends up stopping for a bite to eat along the way at a little country diner place on the side of the road. At the counter he strikes up a conversation with the guy seated next to him.

Guy says, "You'll never believe who was just here!" Without waiting for a response he adds, "Babe Ruth!"

Great-grandpa responds triumphantly, "Oh I believe it! I was just hunting with him for the weekend! Wait til' you hear this!" he says as he looks around to make sure he has an audience. (That's right.  People actually talked like this back then. )

With his voice raised (for the audience) he then tells the story from the top of how they duped Babe Ruth into thinking he had been given a prize-winning hunting dog when in truth they'd given him a gunshy mutt... Only before he gets to the punch-line he's interrupted by a member of the audience, "Well, joke's on you, your buddies, and the guy Babe just sold the dog to for $25!"