Dog burials:
investigating the Town of Bridgeboro, New Jersey -- the oldest part, about
to be blitzed by some massive transportation improvement -- we put in some
strat trenches in the back yards of some of the houses. In the very edge of
one, a couple of toe bones dropped out; scraping back ever so slightly we
could see the edge of the plastic shower curtain which covered the disturbed
soil from whence the digits. I examined them (absent a comparative
collection), and recalling Bill Maples human osteology class, concluded they
must be either Ursus or Homo.
Walked to the corner; called the county ME. "Sorry, he's on the golf
course." Asked that a message be left for him to drop by; we thought we
might have a crime scene. Went back to the trench and the crew laid out a
10x10 next to the trench, over the disturbance (leaving a balk, of course)
and proceeded to peel back with trowels. Eventually, an entire shower
curtain was exposed, but before then, five black-and-whites and a mobile
crime lab had arrived and surrounded the entire block with yellow crime
scene tape. Seemed like this was sort of over-reacting, but then I heard the
large crowd which had gathered for obvious reasons, start murmuring "Jimmy
Hoffa! Jimmy Hoffa!". And of course the local TV station arrived. AT least,
the police kept them off my back. Finally, the ME: inspected our toe bones,
opined "definitely human!" and hurried back to the club -- he'd already
missed most of happy hour.
The Tyvek (registered trademark -- and can't make that little symbol in this
font) gendarmes allowed as how they would let the archaeologists continue,
although I told the crew they were NOT getting overtime for working past
1630 hrs. (I come from a right-to-work state). Much snipping of plasting,
careful brushing of the tops of bones, and down into the burial pit we
revealed the skeleton of the largest damn dog I had ever seen. My associate
Billy Barse started howling like a dog when the fire engine passes. It was
2130 hrs, the Klieg lights kindly provided by the mobile crime lab were hot,
and none of us had had a beer yet. As the ID trickled back to the patient,
local multitudes the laughter became quite audible. I did not feel like
Indiana Jomes.
The next day, a neighbor from across the street came over and said, "I kept
trying to get over there to tell you, but the police wouldn't let me
through". She pointed to an enormous doghouse about 10 feet from our
excavation, with the name "Duke" emblazoned across the entrance. "They loved
that dog, and I watched them bury it there."
The day I found Jimmy Hoffa's spirit dog.
Handsome Archaeologist: Well, at least you can avoid the curse of ageism by
contacting Bill Kelso at the Association for the Preservation of Virginia
Antiquities. He's very busy preparing for the 400th anniversary of
Jamestown, but aside from being "young" (he ain't THAT old, from my
perspective) he completely fulfills every other requirement and has worked
Williamsburg, Monticello, etc. etc. and is extremely telegenic. He is the
man you want, if you can't have Laura Croft.
Tim T.
sordid pedant
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