Animal Magnetism

Wisdom

Life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end the faster it goes. Wonder if it’s the same for our animals, or do they remain blissfully unaware of the pages flying off the calendar? Certainly they understand they are aging, whereas I still think I’m invincible. The mind knows differently but the heart says “Go for it.” In many ways my body is better than it was in my twenties. I’m stronger, faster, and know how to use it better. However, all those injuries collected during flag football, rugby, intercollegiate tennis, more rugby, and most of all polo, remind me when I wake up in the morning that I have collected a lot of “jewelry” and not from Tiffany. But one takes a hot shower, powers down some I-vitamins (ibuprofen), and soon enough, all is well.

As my animals have aged, they, too, receive supplements, extra care. The people that work for me and with me have a lot of collected wisdom. There’s John Morris, Sr.; Junior “Toot,” his handsome son; Robert Steppe, whom I love to torment. They can all give injections, mix potions, and bind wounds, and, if necessary and it’s not bad enough for the vet, we can stitch a creature up. However, no one sews a tight stitch like a good veterinarian. I am well served by Dr. May for the small animals and Anne Bonda for the horses. John’s cousin Melvin Morris works on weekends, and he’s not too squeamish, either. We keep everyone feeling young.

The hunt horses range from four years old (still young) to eighteen. The eighteen-year-old bucks like a four-year-old. Everyone is in rude good health, including me, for which I am thankful.

You and I may not realize how lucky we are. Health is wealth. This is brought forcefully home when someone you love suffers or dies from a lingering disease. Sudden death is shocking, knocks you straight off your feet with grief, but to watch someone you love, human or animal, die by degrees is a special anguish.

Another form of health is in the mind. Animals can be born with mental afflictions, same as people. Much of what we deem human mental illness is a result of civilization and its discontents, to borrow a phrase from Freud. (The original neurotic, though brilliant. Ever notice how people who live from the neck up are a mess?)

Two of the lines of foxhounds I breed are slow to learn. They aren’t mentally deficient, just slow. Most of my hounds are ready to learn at one and by two they really know what they’re doing. But my B and C lines take an extra year. However, once they have it, you can go to the bank with them. A cousin of mine is like that, a bit slow but once it’s in his brain he never forgets, and he’s rock solid.

Brilliant animals, like brilliant people, make trouble if not gainfully employed. About ten years ago, I observed a remarkable animal who had correctly assessed a human’s mental state.

Skyline Kennel Club was putting on a show over in Stuart’s Draft. The building was a great big nondescript block containing roped rings, and there were judges for the various categories: Group I, Sporting Dogs; Group II, Hounds; Group III, Working Dogs; Group IV, Terriers; Group V, Toys; Group VI, Non-Sporting Dogs. Like all beauty pageants, the parade of pulchritude gets your blood up. The Irish Setters, like red kings and queens, commanded attention. The English Setters, more square of body, made you dream of carrying a side-by-side shotgun walking through cornfields in the fall. The bulldogs, as always, represented determination (the sweetest dogs in the kingdom, truly). The Schipperkes made you laugh. All were groomed to perfection, handled by both pros and amateurs, often the owners. Some dogs, like some people, show well. They crave the limelight. All things being equal, those are the dogs that will win a blue ribbon. When the judge picks Best in Show, so often it’s a terrier due to their bright personalities.

In this kind of arena, any scent hound shows at a disadvantage, for a hound should be steady and full of drive, nose to the ground. They aren’t supposed to prance out like Nureyev, head held high. In fact, I find it upsetting if they do so. A sight hound like an Afghan or Saluki shows better since they literally hunt by sight. When they can no longer see their prey, the hunt’s over, whereas the foxhounds, the bassets, the beagles, the coonhounds, and the bloodhounds keep on keeping on. If they lose the line, they want to find it again.

Setters—all bird dogs—are also dedicated to their work. Today there are two types of Irish Setters, two types of English. You see one type, a bit smaller than the show dogs, far more at field trials. Most of you are accustomed to seeing these breeds at the bench shows. Many have never seen the hunting versions. Mercifully, the progressive breeders and many judges recognized the damage being done by breeders who emphasize the “pretty” factor over other good, sensible traits. This has nearly ruined some animals for their original purpose. The worm is turning. I just pray it turns fast enough.

The Gordon Setter has rarely fallen victim to this dolorous practice, certainly not in the numbers that the Irish and English Setters have. Heavier than the other two setters, Gordons are good guard dogs and can hunt birds with the best of them, albeit at a different pace than the Irish or English.

Cocker spaniels really took a hit from reckless breeding, whereas field spaniels, Sussex spaniels, and the large Cumberland have remained intact, probably because they never caught the public’s attention. I hope Stump’s 2008 Westminster win doesn’t change that. Sussex and Clumbers are an acquired taste, but once acquired, you can never live without one. I must confess that apart from my beloved foxhounds and my good bassets I am besotted with the setters and the field spaniels.

I have an Irish Setter, a big red female with wonderful bone and conformation. She guards the house and me. One of my neighbors learned this to his regret. He walked into the house without knocking and she bit him. Fortunately, he is a country man and realized he was at fault, not Tipper. But don’t walk into my house if I’m not in it.

The hero of this chapter is a Gordon Setter. His prime showing days had vanished, if he ever had them, for he was blockier than he should have been. His coat gleamed and flowed. I do so love the Gordon coat. Well, I love Gordons in general. He walked through the hallways at the dog show, never raising a hackle or causing a problem. He caught my eye because I knew he didn’t stand a tinker’s chance in the ring. He exuded something. Yes, all Gordons do, but he seemed to have an extra dose of steel, that getting-down-to-business quality that I admire. The man walking him moved slowly and deliberately, pausing frequently to watch a class. Soon I was distracted from this Gordon as people I knew came up to chat, friends and acquaintances with their dogs on leads, a couple of judges on their way to the next class. AKC judges, like all of us, have partialities, but all are worth your time. The ones who can judge Best in Show are the top of the top. They are my rock stars, right up there with great huntsmen. By partialities, I mean each of them knows the breed standard forward and backward, yet there is wiggle room in every standard. One judge may like more bone in a Rhodesian Ridge-back than another, for instance.

The Gordon class filled one of the rings and I pushed my way over. At first I couldn’t find “my” Gordon but then I spotted him standing quietly on the sidelines. Whew. I hated the thought of him being dismissed early.

Later, Skyline began offering a class for handlers. This was such a good idea. The focus was less about competition than about getting people in the ring with all manner of canines and helping them learn how to show under the eye of a good judge. The judge in this case was more than good. One kid, around twelve years old, give or take, was on the other end of a leash with a beagle, always a crowd pleaser. There was quite a crowd, too, since we all wanted to learn. In fact, you couldn’t move. I was glad I’d hurried over early.

In walked my Gordon Setter. I, along with others, now really noticed his handler. I hadn’t paid attention to the man during the show. I usually focus on the animal first rather than the owner. This middle-aged man had been damaged in some fashion. Whether he was born afflicted or this was the result of an accident, who knew? He moved a little off-kilter. His mind was not quick. However, he was correctly dressed and I perceived that no one was tending to him. He seemed to be self-sufficient and perfectly able to function. But it took him extra time to decipher a command.

The Gordon would sit when the judge called for that. The man would then stop as well. Each request from the judge was first obeyed by the dog. The human copied the dog. As the crowd began to understand what was happening you could hear a pin drop, to use the old expression. All eyes focused on this wonderful dog. When the judge asked for a little movement in the ring, what a show judge with horses could call a “trot,” this majestic animal looked up at his owner, literally touched him with his front paw, and started to move out. The man did likewise but he struggled. In horse terms, he wasn’t a good mover, which could have been the result of an accident. The judge, quite aware and so very kind, gave a little extra time. The others in the ring fell in step. This continued for twenty minutes.

When the class ended, the judge encouraged them all as he shook everyone’s hand. The other handlers then went over and shook the hand of the Gordon’s owner and petted the dog. Tears rolled down my face. I am not a crier and I loathe weeping in public, but I couldn’t help it. Then I noticed just about everyone else was crying, too. Big men, small men, most of the women and the children. That man was so happy he glowed. The Gordon’s tail signaled happiness, too. He looked up at the man and barked one note of joy.

Who of us would have the patience and the wisdom to work with a person like that? Some of you have these gifts and you are in professions where you do much good. I couldn’t do it. Yet our dogs and many horses do it every day, and in the case of the Gordon, all day. Allied to the Gordon’s love was the wisdom that his person needed extra time, extra care.

As always, dogs prove far more sensitive to human needs than most humans. Service dogs are miracle workers. They seem born with a wisdom we lack but we can learn.

My wish for each of us is that we find our own Gordon. None of us is as smart as we think we are. All of us could use some help. There is a dog out there, if you haven’t found one already, that wants to make your life fuller. Give him or her the chance. You’ll be a better person for it.