THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, July 18, 1995 TAG: 9507180280
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 59 lines
No sooner did I express doubts Monday about the new no-flea tablet, at least as it applies to me and my dog, than a reader raises doubts about my doubts.
In a conversation ranging over 18 topics, she noted that a friend had found that over some months his dog, thanks to the tablet, remained just about free of fleas. We can draw hope from that.
It could be that being opposite a field of fleas works to my dog's detriment. Other people have a field of dreams; mine's fleas.
To continue in this vein, a reader criticized my writing the other day that Gov. George Allen is wont to inveigh against the government.
The word ``rails'' would have been better. But the reader complains because, he told our public editor, inveigh was too close in sound to McVeigh, the last name of the man accused of being involved in the Oklahoma bombing.
Those of you who wish to sound off should know that our conscientious editor will relay criticisms fully, via computer and in a printed report. It is vital, of course, that you have that recourse. So, Lay on, Macduff. . . !''
My interview with a major of the Fairfax County police about his concern over the new concealed-weapons law prompted three readers to ask that I seek the views of police in Florida where such a law has been on the books several years. I'll do it.
I ought to be the last person entrusted with a concealed weapon. In no time, I'd misplace it, and everybody would be looking for it for fear it would fall in the hands of a child or a miscreant.
Long ago when our family was settling in the car to move from Atlanta to Richmond, I was sent into the house to see if anything had been overlooked.
On a closet shelf, I found my father's service revolver and was looking at it, in wonder, with the maid who was next dearest in my sight to my mother.
My finger chanced to touch the trigger and the gun went off with a deafening bang. Even more impressive was the bullet that kept ricocheting around the walls like an angry bee. We thought it would never stop. When it did, it buried itself in a wall and not in either one of us, to our weak-kneed relief. We fell in each other's arms.
In the Army, my outfit marched to the rifle range for practice. To Sgt. Maypop's perplexity, I, blind in the left eye, scored high by following instructions learned through reading Joseph Altshuler's novels about frontiersman Henry Ware.
Four years later, as I was being mustered out, a clerk shoved a medal from that day on the range across the counter to me.
I thanked him, shoved it back.
Didn't deserve it.
By the way, will the reader whose niece on the West Coast wants word on Maypop please give me a ring? That request, in my eyes, is what's most important herein. by CNB