“Tweedledum and Tweedledee agreed to have a battle; for Tweedledum said Tweedledee had spoiled his nice new rattle.” —Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
I firmly believe there is a myth abounding as to what the oldest profession is. The truth is the oldest profession is fighting. People have this innate need to confront one another.
The world was just in its infancy in biblical times when Cain didn’t like the fact that his brother Abel was making a clean sweep of it as far as pleasing the Lord with his sacrifices. Abel’s offerings were all accepted instantly, whereas Cain’s were about as popular as the Edsel. (Or for you millennials, these days the fountain pen). Cain could have and should have just walked away and taken over the rest of the Earth, which at this juncture was his for the taking. Instead, he chose a battle.
Some folks just do not get along, with a feud often lingering for rages. I think of the 100 Years War between England and France during the 14th and 15th centuries.
Which brings me to my former chicken man client, Rodney Wittingham. Rodney kept a platoon of chickens. Not on a farm but in his backyard in downtown Toronto. Aside from using the eggs, he just enjoyed his pastoral rural oasis. He also ate only organic produce, bicycled to work and recycled everything. You’ve got it.
He was a proud Englishman, making high tea a daily ritual. I know for sure Rodney could readily trace his ancestors back to the Duke of Wellington.
The gentleman was a history professor associated with the local university.
On the other side in the red corner was a Frenchman, his neighbor, Jean Claude Boulet. Monsieur Boulet grew up in Paris, and he enjoyed nothing more than coming home from his hair salon at the end of a hard day’s work and lounging in his backyard patio sipping a glass of wine. He had a dog, a beagle named François.
One would expect the two sides naturally to get along just fine. Surprisingly, some friction developed. Alas! Monsieur Boulet started bugging my client.
First, he complained my client’s chickens were smelly. He insisted he had the right to sit on his patio without having to ingest the scent of these pullets. Now there was a Brit-hating racist if I ever saw one.
Then he insisted the birds were noisy. The constant clucking of the hens were bad enough, but the worst part he alleged was that rooster who sounded reveille every morning at the crack of dawn. The more he would ask my client to do something, the more Rodney would dig in deeper, insisting a man’s home was his castle. Surely that Frenchman should have understood this good Englishman’s fundamental right. After all, this was Toronto, not the Parisian Left Bank.
Monsieur Boulet then got aggressive. First, he sent François to relieve himself on Rodney’s bicycle. Other dogs would be content to pick trees or fire hydrants, but Boulet trained that mongrel to switch to my poor client’s sole means of transportation.
One thing lead to another. The final straw was the day François grabbed one of my client’s chickens with his snout and carried her out of the backyard and onto the sidewalk.
No harm actually came to the hen, except for the fact she got very nervous, expecting perhaps that she was on her final destination to Colonel Sanders’ domain.
My client, in the totally defensive mood of a man defending his castle, went out with his umbrella and nudged François a bit. Monsieur Boulet noticing the cajoling with the umbrella apparently mistook the scene, and he charged out and tackled my totally innocent client on the sidewalk. What ensued was WrestleMania 43, resulting in the police attending and each side charging the other with assault.
As the trial was about to begin, the prosecutor backed off, and it was agreed that each lawyer would act as prosecutor against the other party, as well as defense counsel for his own. The prosecutor just sat back leisurely on the sidelines to enjoy the production.
The evidence went on for an entire day. During the trial the other side introduced all sorts of irrelevant evidence about Rodney’s chickens. Neighbors testified about the alleged smells and sounds. The other lawyer even suggested to the judge, pointing to the umbrella which had become “Exhibit Four,” that my client ought to have been charged under the Criminal Code with possession of a dangerous weapon.
Rodney was no less zealous in his argument suggesting François was not a beagle at all, alleging wildly his mother was actually a pit bull terrier. This lead to further outbursts in the court by each side about the other’s mother. Rodney also demanded the hound be put to sleep forthwith.
The trial could have gone on longer. I had to use all my persuasive powers to keep my client from bringing the victimized chicken to court. Anyway, I don’t think the hen would have agreed to come without a subpoena.
The trial ended with the judge throwing her hands up in the air and dismissing all charges against everyone. She suggested the parties shake hands like good neighbors. This outcome was likely an oxymoron. She may as well have suggested Wile E. Coyote shake hands with the Road Runner.
The parties certainly both got some fight out of themselves. And at least they had it out civilly in a courtroom, unlike Cain and Abel.
Marcel Strigberger, after 40-plus years of practicing civil litigation in the Toronto area, closed his law office and decided to continue his humor writing and speaking passions. His latest book is First, Let’s Kill the Lawyer Jokes: An Attorney’s Irreverent Serious Look at the Legal Universe. Visit MarcelsHumour.com, and follow him at @MarcelsHumour on X, formerly known as Twitter.
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