A plumber by trade, Robbie Pogmore, his impish grin barely recognizable for the chewing tobacco packed in his cheek, was one of a kind.
I met Robbie in the spring of 1983. A rabid raccoon had found its way into the basement garage of my house on the campus of Choate Rosemary Hall. It hissed, snarled, and foamed in the darkness of a corner. I called the school Plant Office for assistance. They sent Robbie.
He hitched up his sagging jeans and shined a flashlight into the space. Two glowing eyes reflected the light as an accompanying growl emanated from the animal’s throat. Robbie sighed, spit a trail of brown tobacco juice into my gravel driveway, and sauntered back to his pick up truck. He reached in and opened the glove compartment to remove a .45 caliber revolver. My eyes were wide as Robbie checked the chamber, cocked the gun, and walked back into my garage. He disappeared into the darkness.
A few moments later a loud shot exploded. Even though I was expecting it, I was startled just the same. As Robbie walked back out of the garage he muttered, “Won’t be botherin’ ya no more.”
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