Full Cry

CHAPTER 11

Picking her way through the sodden earth, Inky had ample time to consider the fabled January thaw. Without fail, this warm-up occurred soon after the New Year, unlocking ice on the ponds and at the edges of creek beds. Frozen pipes and hoses suddenly spouted leaks, which meant plumbers raked in the bucks.

Shrubs bent low under snow would pop up, releasing dried berries still on the bough. And, of course, the footing was awful.

Inky had den fever, so she crossed Soldier Road to visit Grace, a small red fox living at Foxglove Farm.

Cindy Chandler, owner of this lovely place, had created two ponds, each at a different level, with a water wheel turning water from the upper pond to the lower. Underneath, buried below the frost line, was a pipe that carried the water back to the upper pond. The small insulated pump house served as a winter nest for one groundhog and many field mice, so both Grace and Inky found it most enticing. The field mice screamed bloody murder the second they smelled Inky and Grace. The groundhog, slovenly creature that he was and dreadfully fat, just rolled over and snored more loudly.

The two friends wearied of terrorizing the mice, so they trotted up the low long hill to the stable, a tidy affair with a prominent weathervane in the shape of a running fox.

The girls cleaned out the gleanings, some with molasses coating. Then they visited the Holstein cow and her calf, now as big as she was. These two, Clytemnestra and Orestes, wreaked havoc on Cindy’s fences and occasionally the gardens, too. Cly, as she was called, bored easily. As she had a pea brain, she craved excitement as well as clover. She’d lower her head, smashing through any fence in her path. Orestes, a tiny bell around his neck, would follow.

Finally, Cindy gave up, opened gates, and let her roam. The gardens, off limits, were patrolled by Cindy herself, with a cattle prod or her German shepherd.

Winter curtailed the naughty cow’s depredations. She and Orestes elected to remain close to their shed since it was filled with fresh hay and some special flakes of alfalfa, too. Cly was spoiled rotten. Humans chastised Cindy for babying the huge animal, but Cindy justified this by saying Cly behaved better if she had alfalfa and sweets.

Even the other animals told Cly she was so bad she ought to be hamburger. She’d lower her head, toss it about, let out a “Moo,” and then go about her business.

The foxes slipped under the shed overhang. The cow had bedded down in the straw, Orestes next to her.

“How are you, Cly? I haven’t seen you in some time,” Inky politely inquired.

“Good. What about you?”

“Pretty good, thank you. There’s been so much snow, I don’t imagine too much has been going on around here.”

“Cindy’s planning a potting shed. That’s the news.” She flicked her long tail, which happened to hit her son in the nose.

“Mother,” he grumbled.

“Well, don’t sleep so close to me.”

After more desultory conversation, the two foxes left for Sister’s stable. Sister left out fruit candies, which Inky craved. Moving in a straight line, as the crow flies, Sister’s stable was only three and a half miles from Cindy’s stable.

“Little shapes like the fruit. Grape is a tiny bunch of grapes, and it’s purple. Cherry is a little red cherry. They fit exactly right in your mouth.” Inky anticipated her treats.

“Wish I could get Cindy to put out candy. She puts out corn, and I do like it, but I have a sweet tooth.” Grace also liked to fish. She would sit motionless at the edge of one of the ponds for hours. Quick as a flash, she’d nab one.

The two foxes ducked under fences, finally coming into the large floodplain along Broad Creek. Built up along this floodplain was Soldier Road. The road, used since before the Revolutionary War, had originally been an Indian footpath leading to the Tidewater. Back during the Depression, when the federal government created work, the state built up the road through the floodplain. Even being twenty feet above, with culverts underneath, the road would flood at least once a decade. Modern-day people had to wait for floodwaters to recede, just as their ancestors had.

The two foxes moved four feet in from the creek itself.

“That’s strange.” Grace stopped at a spot that had been dug: small holes, not more than seven inches deep. Inky peered into the shallow holes. “Cowbane. Wasn’t this where the cowbane was?”

“Still is. There’re roots all over here. Smells like parsnip.” Grace could only smell the odor of thawing earth as the scent from the tubers had vanished. “This is where Agamemnon died.”

Agamemnon, Clytemnestra’s mate, had died two and a half years ago.

“Bet that was a mess.” Inky wasn’t out and about yet at that time since it had been spring and she had still been a cub.

“Yes, had to get the tractor, the big eighty-horsepower one, put the chains on him and drag him out. Couldn’t bury him here because of the flooding. What I don’t understand is how could he miss it? I mean, the stems were up, the little umbrella clusters ready to open. We all know what cowbane looks and smells like.”

“Cows just pull up hunks by the roots. Maybe he didn’t know until it was too late,” Inky said thoughtfully.

“Every part of that plant is poisonous but the roots are the most lethal. Even a big bull like Agamemnon takes only a few little bites of a tuber and that’s it. Gone.” Grace’s voice carried the note of finality.

“Kill you in fifteen minutes. If you eat a big enough dose. It can kill any of us. I guess that’s why all this is fenced off, and even Clytemnestra is smart enough not to come down here and eat.”

“That Cly,” Grace shook her head, “she is so dumb. I know she can’t help it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot. You know when Cindy started to plow the roads in the snow, Cly ran out and stood in the road, then she charged the tractor. She’s got a screw loose.”

“Yeah, but she’s not dumb enough to eat what killed Agamemnon,” Inky replied. “I’m surprised Cindy hasn’t put plant poison on this stuff.”

“She does, but it comes back. It’s all over. I guess most humans know what it looks like. It’s pretty when it flowers, you know. All these city people and suburban people moving into the country, they don’t know. They think the white flowers are pretty.”

“They use ‘country’ as a put-down, those folks. They don’t realize how much you have to know to live in the country, to hunt, to farm.” Inky shrugged. “I try to look on the bright side. I mean, they can learn, I guess.”

“Inky, who would dig this up?” Grace’s slender, elegant ears with the black tips swept forward.

“Not an animal. We all know better.”

“Well, someone dug up the cowbane roots.” Grace again examined the shallow holes, moist with the melting snow.

“Had to have done it before the snow. Maybe some human wanted it. You know, some herbalist. Better hope they wore gloves. Cowbane can make you sick just from the stuff that rubs off on your hands.”

The two walked through the culvert to the other side of the road and were now on Roughneck Farm, the high Hangman’s Ridge to their right. They wondered about the little holes a bit more, but soon forgot it as they hurried to the stable where, sure enough, those little sweet fruit candies awaited.

Cowbane is the country term for Conium maculatum: hemlock.