Damn the truth and the second amendment.

Yes, I was mad. Whether or not I was justified is hard to say. In any case, read on and you be the judge . . .

As follows:

I met Dale two months after he got out of jail. He had just finished serving seven years on a ten year sentence for murder. Dale was a tall, lanky, bearded, Lincoln-like, farmer from Iowa who moved to Chile and for years taught veterinary medicine at the local university in Valdivia. He was a used book buyer and collector, an omnivorous reader and an excellent chess player who spoke six languages. Also, he was not one to label people—the reason I hesitate to call him eccentric, but you decide.

The first time I saw him he was riding his pink banana bike in downtown Valdivia on his way to teach a class. There was no way to mistake him: he was pedaling while wearing a black pilgrim’s hat, with prominent silver buckle in front, as well as a long trench coat and followed by at least thirty kids who were gleefully keeping up with him, crying “El Americano, el Americano,” just for the fun. (In one of the pockets of his coat was an endless supply of candy). Needless to say, he stopped traffic in both directions as he went—but, there were no complaints.

Dale was a natural vet. He was so good with animals, those who knew him considered him a genius. He was the favorite professor by far at the University. Nobody could touch him: he made his own rules and stuck to them. The students loved him and the University bureaucrats could only look in wonder and admiration at his antics: he was so popular, he did what he pleased, taught what he wanted, and let anyone who was interested attend his classes, including me. The times I went, it was standing room only.

Dale and I became good friends and we used to spend hours playing chess and talking, or rummaging through his collection of old encyclopedias looking for long lost wisdom. That I could tell, he only had two faults: he was stuck on the second amendment and the truth.

He arrived in Valdivia with several big containers-full of an Iowa farmer’s needs: old motors, older tractors, rusty windmills, ancient welders, along with every hand tool known to mankind, besides a million other things. Among the “other” were his collection of guns.

Chile is not crazy enough to have a second amendment that reads like ours. Theirs reads more like “you want a gun? you prove a need, then apply for a permit. Next, while you get tested out by a phycologist, we register the weapon, test fire two rounds to make sure it works and check ballistics. Afterwards, we limit how many bullets you buy, and have you fill out a form to get more. By the way, don’t ask about owning a military style weapon, it will only make us laugh. If you insist, read our lips: NO! Shotguns and bird shot are okay, but they still have to be registered.

Dale’s problem started with the neighbor’s pig: the determined pig would not stay on his side of the fence, preferring Dale’s vegetable garden instead. So naturally, Dale shot the pig in the rump with birdshot. The pig didn’t seem to mind, but the farmer who owned the pig surely did. That same afternoon he came looking for Dale with an axe handle, so Dale shot him on the leg with more birdshot. According to Dale, because of the distance, it barely broke the skin and hardly damaged the pants, but the farmer died three days later from lead poisoning—he never left the house to see a doctor or get a tetanus shot.

They never arrested Dale, figuring an open and shut case of self-defense in addition to a dumb-ass farmer trespassing.

Then the trial begins. (Trial by judge, not jury).

“Professor,” asked the judge, “Can you explain the unregistered shotgun?”

“It’s a God given right to own a gun.”

“Not in Chile it isn’t.”

“God is here in Chile.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right.”

The judge shifted tactics.

“Do you think he (the farmer) came at you with intent to hurt?” asked the judge.

“Who knows, I don’t make a habit of reading minds.”

“A simple yes will suffice professor . . . and you get to go home,” explained the judge.

But no. Dale was stuck on the absolute truth: no grey line, no fudging or hedging, no backup whatsoever.

“Will your wife testify and say that he was coming after you?” continued the judge, trying to find a way out.

“She will say whatever, to save me grief, but she wasn’t there.”

“Professor, don’t tie my hands. I have to have a yes, either from you or your wife, else I’m duty bound to give you ten years in jail, a minimum of seven with good behavior, for involuntary manslaughter.”

“Your decision your honor, you’re the judge, not me.”

Epilog: Dale died two years after I met him when the farmer’s son shot him in the chest and left him bleeding by the side of the road. At Dale’s funeral, his wife told me that their thirteen year old son had accidentally shot himself while cleaning one of his father’s gun in Iowa, before they moved to Chile—the reason they moved.

The farmer’s son died in a shootout with police eight years later when they found him and tried to arrest him. Two other people caught in the crossfire died also.

I understand the pig sired countless litters of piglets and lived to a ripe old age.

m