Animal Magnetism

Let Go of the Pain, Hold On to the Memory

Creativity is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration. That’s not a bad formula for life in general.

When it comes to inspiration, there are many animals, people, and events that lift me up. I’m sure you have your own list. Mine includes Hannibal. What a brilliant military commander. Citation, one of the greatest Thoroughbred racehorses of all time. Pickett’s Charge. What moves us also gives insight into our own character and that of others. People inspired by Pavlova might wish to be ballerinas, or they might be moved by her combination of athletic prowess and dramatic ability that great ballet stars possess. Others revere Teddy Roosevelt. God knows, he had energy. An engineer visiting Italy will surely be inspired by the aqueducts. And so it goes.

In my life, I’ve been fortunate to observe and study people with brains and grit. One without the other fails to impress me. Mother certainly had both. Dad, too, but what he gave me was insight into people, and emotional wisdom.

Three of the most inspirational people I have known were Countess Judith Gurky, Mrs. Paul Summers, Jr., and Virginia Moss.

Countess Gurky rescued her herd of Hungarian Warmblood horses during World War II. The Germans and the Russians rolled toward Hungary with the intention of strangling this remarkable nation, so different from the rest of Central Europe. Their language, flair, and superb horsemanship set Hungary apart. Hussars originated in Hungary. The Hussar is a form of light cavalry (soldiers who fight while mounted on horses, a form which has produced brilliant leaders like the American general Jeb Stuart).

Along the way Countess Gurky collected a Russian deserter, a German deserter, and an American lost from his unit. The four of them crossed the major rivers of Central Europe, were strafed, suffered, and lost a few horses, but not many. They made it to safety.

The Countess exhibited an imperious streak not uncommon in aristocrats born before World War I. She moved to southwestern Albemarle County in Virginia with her salvaged herd, which she managed to ship across the Atlantic. She had salvaged some resources, too, but like most people of her generation she experienced loss of land, country, possessions, money. She continued her great passion, and all of us who knew her, however slightly, felt her will, and her love for the horse. At the end of her days she dressed like a gypsy but you could still see the traces of beauty. John Western and Greg Schmidt, DVM, gave me an 8×10 photograph of the Countess, so beautiful, surrounded by her hounds. I prize it.

If one slender woman and three men at war with one another could perform this incredible service for animals, surely I can do my part.

Jill Summers’s inspiring trajectory flew in a different direction. Growing up in Oxford, Mississippi, with an alcoholic father—William Faulkner—and a mother who endured but could drink a bit, too, her childhood created a wary, watchful, impeccably married Southern lady. The Faulkners had a child before Jill who had died. I’m not sure they hesitated to haunt her with that. At any rate, she was well acquainted with domestic pain. Not to say there weren’t good moments in her childhood. She learned to love horses. She had the grace and generosity to care for her aged mother. She did not complain, she did not explain. Jill got on with her life. She never, ever traded on her father’s name. She married a handsome, outgoing man, Paul Summers, Jr. Three children resulted. Like all children there were times when Jill and Paul could have just swatted them silly, but Jill was one of the best mothers I have ever known. Her love was unshakable.

Oh, the lady could ride. Like all fabulous riders she appeared to do nothing up there. She was Master of Foxhounds at Farmington Hunt Club for nearly forty years. Each year she bred a fine pack of hounds. That’s a little like Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak but Jill did it every year. Without comment. Without drawing any attention to herself.

As most foxhunters hunt to ride, even those who had hunted with her for decades did not fully comprehend how extraordinary her achievement was. All the while, she was also a full-time wife, mother, incredible cook, and gardener. She could do anything except handle conflict. That’s when she’d disappear. I expect she could handle it with Paul, as there’s no such thing as a long marriage without sulphurous moments, or perhaps Paul figured out how to handle her.

Few people have experienced a childhood like Jill’s, the fallout of worldwide fame (never to be desired, trust me on this) and the usual silly politicking inherent in subscription hunt clubs. A subscription pack is a miniature Congress. Enough said. My pack is a private pack, which means I am king. As Catherine de’ Medici’s son Charles of France once said, “It’s good to be king.” Sure hope I’m a better one than he was. Although Charles IX (1550–1574) did write Traité de la chasse royal.

Another human I have admired tremendously is Virginia Moss, MFH of Moore County Hounds in Southern Pines. Like Jill, she could ride. She bred lovely Thoroughbreds. Expansive, warm, hospitable, she gladly gave of her knowledge, her refrigerator’s contents, anything. When I first met her she was in her seventies, sailing over four-foot fences, some larger as they’d been poached out in front, without a bobble. Slim, smartly turned out, she’d smile at a member and their confidence would soar. Ginny transmitted courage as well as goodness. I wouldn’t be where I am today with my hunt club if it hadn’t been for the years that sweet soul indulged me. Twice a year I’d drive down to Southern Pines to visit with her and hunt with Moore County.

The other glorious thing about Ginny was she could be funny without being malicious. She was around ninety-five when she left us. If you knew her, you’d agree, that was too soon. We need another ninety years! She had so much left. I cherish everything she gave to me.

When I started my foxhunting mystery series, I rolled up parts of Jill and Ginny and threw in the magic of invention. In Sister Jane Arnold there is also some wish fulfillment on my part. She rides better than I do, and she’s a far, far better Field Master than I was when I filled that position. For one thing, I’d bedevil my huntsman too much, and for another, people in my field kept falling off, which was more my fault than theirs. I’m a better huntsman.

Those who read the Sister Jane series fall in love with her. She’s an inspiration. The one trait I share with Sister Jane is that we’re both determined. We have grit.

But humans aside, the most inspirational creature I have ever known, who still guides me today, was a Belgian Shepherd Greendale, a black beauty with a hint of flat-coat retriever tossed in.

I found her in the middle of a country dirt road not far from my farm in Nelson County. She’d been run over and was screaming. She was only about six weeks old. I picked her up, which hurt her, but I spoke to her low and she calmed down. I drove to the closest vet (Dr. May wasn’t in Nellysford yet so I had to get into Waynesboro). Many of her bones had been broken. She was so small it would have been very difficult to set them. The vet, a young lady, was so kind. She asked if I wanted to put the little thing down. I looked into this puppy’s sweet brown eyes and said, “No, I’ll take care of her.”

The vet suggested that when she had grown perhaps we could rebreak her bones and set them correctly, providing that she lived.

She lived. She slept by my bed. I carried her around. Her bones knit quickly and I put her on every bone-enhancing supplement, every oxidizer I could find. There she’d be, in my lap, opening her little mouth as I’d pop in a bit of a pill, smothered in butter. She was too young to swallow whole ones. In six weeks’ time she had healed. Everything healed crooked. One shoulder popped up higher than the other. Her forelegs had two big lumps where the bones had broken but they weren’t too terrible. Her hips and hind legs were crooked. She couldn’t have cared less. That was the happiest dog I have ever known, the most courageous.

At the risk of bragging, Tack worshipped me. And I her. She never tried to bite me when in pain. She wagged her tail every time she saw me. She loved riding in the truck. When fully grown, she’d come along to exercise the horses. Three sets a day adds up to six miles. She’d lope along regardless of the weather. Cold weather had to settle in her bones, because it does in mine. Not a peep. Only bright eyes and eagerness. She ate anything you chose to give her with ladylike delicacy and gratitude. Her whole life was gratitude.

Friends who could ride would sometimes do a set with me, including Dana Flaherty, my forever professional whipper-in. Sometimes these friends would ask with concern, “Isn’t that dog in pain?”

Would I allow an animal in pain to do this six days a week? She wasn’t in pain. She developed beautiful muscles that helped support her. Her coat shone like anthracite. She’d sometimes talk when she ran, out of sheer happiness.

At age twelve she creaked a little when she’d rise in the morning. Time for Rimadyl. By age fourteen the arthritis was pronounced, but she still wanted to go out on every set. We allowed her one a day because those two-mile runs were good for her circulatory system and her muscles. And she’d go once her Rimadyl kicked in.

Close to fifteen, her movements slowed and her hearing was compromised a little. No more sets. I’d shout “Walkies!” and she’d hustle to the front door for a leisurely mile walk, just the two of us. She smiled the whole time.

One warm day, I hopped into my nice Volvo station wagon. My friend Judy Pastore was in the driveway on foot and we were chatting by the driver’s window. I had the wagon in reverse and drifted back, under five miles an hour, but I bumped into Tack who was back there waiting for me to drop the door. She wanted her ride.

She let out a scream.

Judy ran back to her. Tack lay on her side. I joined Judy and we lifted her up. She flopped down. Distraught but not losing it, I put my hands under her belly, straddling her while Judy slowly walked in front and we led her into the house.

We found an old blanket and Tack gratefully lay down. She ate well, drank. But her motor skills eroded. Then she couldn’t control her bladder.

She’d only been knocked over. A football tackle hits far harder. Nonetheless, I felt terrible over what I’d done to this marvelous dog.

After four days of lifting her in and out of the house, holding her up (she weighed about seventy pounds), it became obvious that Tack wasn’t going to bounce back. The arthritis, age, her original injuries, and my last insult had done their work.

I called Anne Bonda. She drove the forty-five minutes from her clinic to help us. Judy and I put Tack in the bedroom, because she wanted to sleep near me as she had all her life. Anne brought her assistant, Joanne. Tack lifted her head. She was alert but slipping away. I petted her and told her what a great dog she was. Then Judy ushered me out. Anne gave her her shot. Tack left us. Well, Anne cried, Judy cried, Joanne cried, and I tried not to, without much success.

Tack touched everyone who knew her because of her great courage, joy of life, and devotion.

I know she forgave me that bump. The lower tailgate of the Volvo is metal, and with her lying down just ready to get in the back, I couldn’t see her, and neither could Judy.

I couldn’t forgive myself. I mourned my dog and cursed myself for months. I couldn’t think about her without a knot in my stomach and tears in my eyes. Not in front of anyone.

Then one day I thought, “Tack loved me. Maybe she loved me more than any human or animal in my entire life. She wouldn’t want me to be miserable. She’d want me to be happy, and to help other dogs, cats, and horses.” That’s an obvious pep talk but it felt like truth to me.

I let the pain go.

Now what I remember best is her courage, her love, her desire for my striped socks. Why the striped ones and not the white, I will never know.

I hope I can be as courageous as Tack. I hope you can, too.