Animal Magnetism

Stand and Fight

Mother taught me to fix the problem, not the blame. I try. I was also taught not to blather on about my personal life. One can discuss ideas, events, the all-important weather. What goes on behind your closed door stays there. Today I’m in the minority. Venting is a national pastime. It’s supposed to be good for your health. Maybe it is, but it’s not good for mine. A true friend can bring me any burden. I will share it. With a little luck and a lot of prayer, I might even be able to fix it. But with regard to the world at large, my feeling is essentially: shut up and get on with it.

Animals don’t vent, whine, or collect injustices. They understand wrongdoing and punish it immediately. No lawyers. No remediation. No therapist. With a cat, it’s a hiss or a whack across the snout. A dog will growl at a miscreant, and might try a takedown as well. Horse’s hooves will fly, or their big teeth might remove a chunk of skin and flesh.

I see this over and over. If my foxhounds come in but one stays out, the others become upset. I’ll look for the hound, as will hunt staff and club members who have worked with the hounds. Sometimes the laggard is young, not quite in the game. The older hounds might vocally abuse the youngster but no real harm is done when she is returned to the kennel. Their correction confirms my authority as head hound, as well as the fact that we hunt as a team, we return as a team.

Virginia, a noticeable girl with large dark brown markings on her glossy white coat, hunts like a demon. Every now and then, Virginia takes a notion. Tantalizing scent lingers here and there. She wants to pursue that scent whether I call her in or not. The other hounds know what she’s doing.

When Virginia does come back to the kennel in her own good time, which happens often, one of us has to wait until the girls settle. When we put her in the “Big Girls’ Run” the other hounds surround her and growl. If we don’t step in, they will throw her down. If Virginia submits, she might endure puncture wounds on her hindquarters. If not, they’ll tear her apart. Their sense of justice is strong. Virginia has done wrong. If I don’t punish her, they will.

Do I punish her? No. I don’t want her to fear coming back to me or to the kennels. So when she appears, in she goes. We let the bitching and moaning from the others run their course. Then a human, crop in hand, steps in and says harshly, “Leave it.” That works a treat.

Without as many layers of so-called civilization, humans used to act more like hounds. People who didn’t get along weren’t harmed, but they were pointedly ignored. During times of severe repression (Cromwell’s England, for example) an oddball might have been chastised in front of the congregation for not doing God’s bidding with a happy heart. God’s bidding, as I’m sure you know if you read history, mirrored whatever the Puritans wanted it to be. Selective reading of the Bible is hardly modern. You can justify anything this way.

Most humans don’t believe that animals have a sense of justice or morality. “Morality” is a loaded word. Justice is easier to understand. Animals have a clear sense of justice. The punishment fits the crime. Once it did for us, too. If you stole something your hand was cut off, and so forth. Brutal? Yes. Also effective. Although I suppose you could learn to steal with the other hand.

Over the centuries, and especially in the last forty years, a sense of responsibility for one’s actions has been erased. The damage that this disconnect from personal responsibility has done may be beyond calculation. Everyone living in America feels the effects but many don’t want to deal with them.

Animals can’t escape their responsibilities as we can. Their recourse is to kill or run away. Most choose the latter. If pack animals don’t obey the pack rules, they are killed or driven to the edges. If they are killed, it’s because they continually challenge the leaders. Humans still do this, too, but we cover it up better. Entire nations sit on the bones of murdered political foes. No nation has a clean record but some are better than others. Again, you can’t judge the past by the present. People do, but how foolish.

If a hound can’t get along in my pack, I remove it to a run where it stays alone, or with a few other hounds it does get along with. What’s fascinating is that that same malcontent can still hunt well with the pack. It’s the living together that doesn’t work so well.

A dog will whine if it’s upset or needs something, but no animal whines in the manner of a human. It’s deeply boring when a woman does it and beyond the pale when a man does it. Patriarchy brings extra benefits, extra burdens. You want the benefits, accept the burdens. The problem with pushing down any segment of the population based on irrational criteria, e.g., color, gender, sexuality, is you must spend so much energy keeping an excluded group in its place. When the conquest is fresh, that energy takes the form of military or police. Over the centuries, elaborate ideologies were created to prove why the untermenschen are untermenschen. For some reason, this makes the top dog feel so much better about himself. The tragedy is that the oppressed so often internalize the definition of themselves as not as good as the top dog.

In real life a top dog in the kennels needs no such recourse. He or she is simply top dog—and often it is a bitch because the boys’ minds wander, whereas the girls’ minds focus like lasers. The top dog has earned his or her position through physical power and intelligence (there are no dumb top dogs) and willpower. Once every other dog or hound in the pack realizes the top dog will enforce her or his will, they fall in line. Calm ensues. Harmony reigns.

The horses behave in a similar manner. They aren’t as quick to punish a horse who doesn’t do what I ask, but, boy, will they nail one who doesn’t do what they ask. What I notice about the horses is that if some are being naughty, the others distance themselves. When I walk into the paddock they look at me as if to say, “Jerks. Those boys are such jerks.” If a horse is naughty to them, they usually kick him.

As a human, I don’t always fathom the deep layers of responsibility, social interaction, and blood ties among humans. I try, but much is hidden and much is lost. What we are is a result of what happened many generations ago. A big moment, 1066. Not only did the English language change, the world changed. How could William the Conqueror know that his invasion gave those island peoples the last tool they needed to dominate the world? The dissolution of the monasteries during the reign of Henry VIII provided another great turning point. English-speaking people were cut off from Rome. If you didn’t accept it, you were dead. It freed us intellectually.

Animals may have these turning points, but I expect they are evolutionary. As with us, much of the social or pack history is lost.

Even the physical package changes. Food is good; animals grow larger. Food is scarce, they shrink, become thin. More light and warmth, less hair. Each of us as an individual and as a member of our pack responds to the environment.

Humans believe they have a huge impact on nature. They do, but so do many other species, the beaver being an obvious example. The pine beetle or the boll weevil also changed the land. Every living thing leaves some mark, for good or for ill. The tricky part is that what’s good in 1066 may not be good in 2010.

What remains constant are the great virtues of love, courage, compassion, and righteous action. Animals are capable of all of these virtues, as well as their opposites.

Some of you might balk at the idea of animals feeling compassion. If you sit in a chair and cry, doesn’t your cat or dog come to comfort you? Mine do. I rarely cry but they know when I’m sad. Isn’t that compassion? Once I came upon a dog that had been hit by a car. Its canine companion stayed there in the middle of the road to comfort its friend. No cellphone then so I put out flares (a good thing to keep on hand) and drove miles to a gas station. First I called the sheriff’s department, since they’d respond the quickest to a potential car accident. As it was cold and rainy, the potential for an accident was real. That’s why I set out the flares. An injured dog in the middle of the road could be dangerous for anyone driving on that road. Next I called Animal Control.

Those public servants did their job. The dogs were rescued. The hit dog didn’t make it, but the rescuers did find the owner of the companion, who knew the owner of the deceased dog.

Compassion. Perhaps animals are further along than we are. A dog doesn’t look at another dog and say, “I hate collies, I don’t like their coats. They spend too much time with sheep, and they worship idols in the shape of collies.” So I’d have to say they have more tolerance as well as compassion. They won’t tolerate wrongdoing, but a dog, cat, or horse could care less if its buddy is chestnut, bay, gray, or pinto.

Each of my house dogs has a unique personality and a sense of independence. I encourage this, as long as it doesn’t cause harm to the animal or to the rest of my household. Take Godzilla, the fat black-and-white Jack Russell. Sixteen years ago, she was given to me by my dear friend Joan Hamilton. Naturally everyone loved her. She considered it her due.

When Godzilla was eleven, Judy Pastore moved here from Los Angeles. After eight months of looking around, she found a house we all call “The Yellow Teacup” as it abuts my land, Tea-Time Farm.

Judy, being girly, transformed this place into one of great charm. Her pets have their own fenced-in yard with a big house in the back with tile floors. It’s big enough for a person to inhabit. The dogs sleep in special beds, play with an abundance of toys, and just generally loll about in a canine paradise.

Godzilla has a habit of jumping into vehicles. People would visit me and a half hour after they left, I would receive a phone call. A strange noise alerted them while driving. The next thing they knew, Godzilla had leaped over the center console right into their laps. Usually I’d go pick her up. Sometimes, if the individual was a hunt club member, Godzilla would stay with them for two days, to be returned at the next hunt. In this way she acquired many treats. People thought the poor dear would be longing for home. The poor dear longed to be the center of attention. She was, and still is.

As Judy stayed here while working on her house, Godzilla would ride over with her for daily inspections. The little dog liked what she saw, recognizing this house as being quite superior to the one where she was currently quartered.

When Judy finally moved, Godzilla would again ride with her and even spend the night. One evening I couldn’t find her. She had walked from my house to Judy’s, a distance of perhaps a mile, some of it on the two-lane paved highway. She was returned the following morning, only to repeat her journey that evening.

My own dog dumped me.

You should see how she lives. I mean, I take good care of my dogs; I love them. They have toys, horses to play with, plenty of food. But they do not have a small palace to call their own. Godzilla has a special place in the palace, plus a special place in Judy’s beautiful kitchen, a far cry from mine where only one burner works on the stove. I really do mean to buy a new one, but domestic needs take a far second place to farm needs, e.g., fencing, overseeing. I need a wife or a husband who can do such things. But given that my own dog left me, I know the chances of a human coming on board are next to nothing.

This dog is so spoiled, she even has her own wardrobe. Worse, she walks into my house and plops down so the other dogs see her. When she’s had enough attention she leaves. Judy keeps her horses here, so Godzilla makes daily appearances. And appearances they are. Never have I met such a vain animal. Godzilla feels that every toy in my house is also hers. Thank God she can’t get her paws on my checkbook.

As soon as she sails through my front door or enters via the dog door she comes and finds me, expecting lavish love. What’s a mother to do?

Physical courage is obvious in any species. Emotional or intellectual courage—well, we know it when we see it but it’s harder to pin down.

Physical courage often brings admiration, even rewards. Emotional and intellectual courage usually brings pain, since it often involves bucking the system. Decades or even centuries later, the individual may receive acclaim.

R.C., my large Doberman, may have had intellectual and emotional courage, but those qualities eluded me. Smart as he was, he couldn’t read, nor did he involve himself in a complicated social life. Part of the house pack, the number-three dog, he knew his place and was content with it. My comings and goings fascinated him. Up he’d bound to sniff my shoes, then my pants legs. He stopped at my waist because I’d told him he needed to stay on the ground. Left to his own devices he would have stood on his back legs and been as tall as I am.

I always make sure Godzilla stays inside. R.C., being big, can face down the bobcat and bear that live here. Godzilla is too little. But even R.C. couldn’t best a pack of coyotes.

About fifteen years ago we began to hear stories of coyotes being sighted in southwestern Virginia down near the Tennessee, North Carolina, and Kentucky borders where the states converge. By the early nineties, coyotes were sighted here.

R.C. and UG raised the alarm when coyotes would sneak here under the cloak of night. While a coyote can hunt alone, it prefers to hunt in a pack. If you see one when you’re out walking, which I have, chances are you’re surrounded. Unlike wolves, who could easily kill an unarmed human, they probably aren’t going to attack you. Food is plentiful. There’s no need. Also they’re smaller than wolves. While hunting in a pack gives them an advantage, a human might be able to fend them off. Still, it’s a good idea since the coyote invasion to carry a pistol or some other form of defense when walking alone, even in the daytime.

Coyotes in the East carry more weight than those in the West. They can run up to forty or fifty pounds if they’re full grown. Living high on all our gophers, squirrels, house cats, chickens, newborn lambs and calves, they look like German Shepherds from a distance. Then you realize that they lack the shepherd’s pronounced slope to the hindquarters and the noble Alsatian head. Curious, they’ll often follow you, watching. Once when I walked out with the bassets and all the house dogs I saw a coyote sitting on a hill near my St. Thomas Equinus sign. He took a powder and the house dogs took off after him. Rudy, the Irish Terrier, remained behind. The Irish Setter, UG, and R.C. smoked right on that coyote’s tail. By the time I reached the basset kennels, the house dogs had returned.

The bassets were excited by all the commotion as well as the scent. Coyote scent is heavier than fox, lighter then bear. Bassets hunt rabbits, an extremely light scent. They knew the coyote wasn’t their quarry, but he smelled exciting.

My house dogs have a dog door, but if the coyotes are around I shut it at night to keep the cats and dogs in. Coyotes hunt at intervals around here; like most predators, they have a range, a schedule. A bear can hunt a one-hundred-mile radius. A coyote’s radius is less. A fox’s can be as much as twenty miles, but being the smart creatures that they are, they are usually a lot closer to the food supply. These radii appear in various game books. While the books are as accurate as human observation allows, animals don’t read the books. Wide variation exists, which frustrates humans who want life, or foxes, to go by the book.

December 20, 2008, I let the dogs out. Tipper, the Irish Setter, went out with R.C. When the coyotes are on the prowl, I never let the dogs out alone. Tipper came back an hour and a half later. R.C. never came back.

The pack surrounded him and tore him apart. He took some with him. Courage. Some dogs, like some people, would have slunk down, hoping for a swift death. Makes sense. R.C. hoped for no such thing.

Had the coyotes attacked me, R.C. would have acted in the same fashion. A Doberman is born to protect and defend, and if you belong to one, he or she will die in the effort. I was sorry I wasn’t with him, because we could have fought them off together.

Courage comes in all shapes and sizes. Small dogs will also die to defend you. Who would take on a Jack Russell? Not me. The fierce little dog could scoot right under the bellies of the coyotes. Then it would be a race for life.

Memories of R.C. stay with me. When the coyotes come for me in whatever form, be it human or illness or whatever launches me into the hereafter, I hope I have his courage.