Full Cry

CHAPTER 25

Plan your hunt, then hunt your plan. Every master and huntsman has heard this advice. Of course, the fox could care less. A good huntsman adjusts to the curves thrown by that prescient fox. An even better master doesn’t criticize when the hunt is over.

Tuesday, a small field followed hounds at Melton, a new fixture southwest of what the Jefferson Hunt called the “home territory.” Wealthy new people, eager to make a good showing, spent a great deal of money rehabbing the old place. Many jokingly called Melton “Meltdown” behind their backs. The attractive owners, Anatole and Beryle Green, in their late thirties, rode today with Hilltoppers.

The small field kept moving.

Shaker knew he’d drawn over a fox in heavy covert, but he couldn’t push the creature out. When first hunting hounds as a young man, he would have wasted far too much time trying to bolt the fox. Wise in the ways of his quarry and hunting, he now kept moving.

Half the D young entry hunted this morning. The other young entry stayed at home. They’d go on Thursday if conditions looked promising.

Sister, Tedi, Edward, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Sam, Gray, Dalton, and Ronnie composed First Flight. Bobby Franklin had only three people. Izzy Berry rode with Bobby to give herself a break from the crisis. Clay would be out next hunt, she said.

The temperature hovered in the low forties, the footing— slick on top, still frozen underneath—kept the riders alert and wary. What made this Tuesday difficult, apart from footing, was the strange stillness. Not a flicker of breeze moved bare tree limbs. As frost melted on the branches, the droplets hung like teardrops.

St. Just, the large crow, flew overhead. His hunting range covered half the county, less to do with the food supply than his relentless nosiness. Unlike Athena and Bitsy, St. Just rarely swooped down on prey. He would alight and walk on the ground, his gait rocking him from side to side. He’d pick up in his long beak anything that looked delicious. If taste disappointed, he’d drop the offending item. Most country people put out seed for birds in winter. He visited those feeders that he felt contained the better grade of seeds, thistle, tiny bits of dried fruit. One kind soul even put out desiccated grasshoppers.

One of St. Just’s distinguishing features, apart from his vibrantly blue-black coat, was his burning hatred of foxes, and of all those foxes, Target had earned his special venom after killing St. Just’s mate.

The crow alighted on a drooping, naked, weeping cherry branch, an ornamental tree flourishing at the edge of the covert, thanks to a bird eating the seeds of another cherry tree miles away, then depositing them here.

“Cora, Cora,” he cawed. “Visiting red heading back to Mill Ruins. He crossed the old retaining walls at the pump house.” Having said that, he lifted to higher altitudes.

Diana, hearing this, asked Cora, “If we don’t get there soon, the scent will be gone.”

Young Diddy asked, “Why can’t we just run over there?”

“Because Shaker, Betty, Sybil, and Sister will think we’re rioting. We have to find a way to swing Shaker to our right,” Cora informed her.

“Oh.” Diddy now had another rule to remember. This hunting stuff was complicated.

“Well, we can feather, but not open and move that way,” Diana sensibly suggested. “We aren’t lying. We aren’t rioting. We haven’t opened. Once we pick up the scent, then we can open. Shaker will never know. Humans can’t smell a thing.”

“Hmm.” Cora considered this, then spoke, low, to the pack. “Follow Diana and me. Feather. St. Just swears a red isn’t far, moving east from the pump house. I think this is our only hope of a run today. Don’t open unless you really smell fox. Dragon, did you hear me?”

Indignant, Dragon snapped, “I do not babble.”

“Well, you do everything else,” Cora snapped right back, then put her nose down. “Follow me. We have to move quickly. Noses down, of course, and feather. It will give Sister and Shaker confidence.”

Darby, nose down, whispered to Asa, “Is it true, really true, that humans can’t smell?”

“ ’Fraid it is, son. Can’t run either. Now if the scent is strong, mating scent, and it’s a warm day, the scent can rise up, then even a human can catch it. Of course, by then it’s over our head, so it won’t be a good day’s hunting.”

Doughboy, ears slightly lifted, questioned, “But if they can’t smell, how do they survive?”

Ardent supplied the answer. “Totally dependent on their eyes. Their ears used to be okay, but the last two generations of humans, according to Shaker, have lost thirty percent of their hearing or worse before forty, which is like six or seven years for us.”

“Why?” Delight couldn’t imagine such a thing: no nose and bum ears.

“Decibel levels. They’ve destroyed their hearing by turning up rock music, rap music. Just fritzes ’em right out.” Delia could see they were nearly out of the heavy covert. The pump house was up ahead. “Don’t worry about humans. Worry about getting a line. If we can run a fox on a day like today, young one, we’ll be covered in glory.”

Dragon bumped Dasher. His brother, outraged, snarled and bumped him hard right back. Dragon bared his teeth.

“Settle!” Cora commanded.

Neither dog hound would be so foolish as to cross the queen of the pack. She wouldn’t hesitate to take them down, and Asa and Ardent would be right with her. The two angry brothers would then sport more holes than Swiss cheese.

Diddy, hearing the snarls, swerved to the right. Although young, she couldn’t help but push up front with her marvelous drive and good speed. Heartening as this was to observe, Cora kept her eye on the gyp. In her first year, it would be easy for her to make mistakes. But Diddy couldn’t keep herself in the middle of the pack where she’d be carried along by the tried and true hounds.

However, at this moment, Diddy’s drive and position saved the day. She moved forty yards from the pack. Sybil on the right noticed this, carefully moving ahead of the hound in case she needed to push Diddy back. Anticipation is half the game. If you can prevent a hound from squirting out, it’s far better than searching for the hound if she doesn’t come back to the horn. And it’s a foolish whipper-in who abandons the whole pack to turn one errant hound. Sybil also read Diddy’s body language; the youngster wasn’t going to bolt.

Suddenly Diddy stopped, rigid, her stern straight up in the air, nose glued to the ground not five yards from the crumbling stone retaining wall.

“What do I do? What do I do?” Diddy thought to herself. “If I’m wrong, Cora will let me have it, but . . . but fox, this is a fox!” She took a deep breath, her nostrils filling with the fading but unmistakable scent of a red dog fox pungent in courting perfume. Working up her courage, she said in a faltering voice, “Fox.” Then she spoke with a bit more authority. “Fox, fading line.”

Cora lifted her head, raced to the young hound, put her nose down. Under her breath she praised Diddy, “Good work. It’s Clement, a young red.” Then she kept her nose down and spoke in her sonorous voice, “Get on it. Fading fast!”

The pack flew to Cora, opening as they trotted on the line. They crossed the other retaining wall, found the line again, and kept moving, not running flat out as scent was too thin. Better to keep it under nose than pick up speed, overrun, or lose it altogether. The hounds understood scent.

Sister might not be able to smell squat, but she knew to trust her hounds. Aztec pricked his ears, his own nostrils widening. He wanted to run.

“Steady,” Sister said in a low voice.

“But I know they’re on!” Aztec trembled.

Sam, on the new timber horse, Cloud Nine, realized he was going to need a tight seat if they took off. Tedi, hearing the snorting behind her, and possessing a keen sense of self-preservation, reined in for a second as Sam passed. No point in getting run over. She just hoped Sam wouldn’t be on a runaway. Even the best of jockeys endure that at one time or another.

Once on the far side of an overgrown meadow, not yet tidied up by the Greens because it was far from the house, Nellie paused. Two scent trails crossed. Both were fox. If she called out, the youngsters might come up, get confused. She made an executive decision, pushed straight ahead on the stronger line, believing it was Clement’s. If not, the humans would never know the difference.

A few yards from the convergence of scents, she let out a deep, deep holler. “Heating up. Come on!” Then she moved up from a brisk trot to a long, loping ground-covering run.

Sister and Aztec, happy to be moving out, kept the hounds in sight. Usually Sister would be a tad closer, but the footing was going from bad to worse.

A simple in and out, two coops placed across from each other in parallel fence lines, beckoned. Aztec hit the first perfectly, which meant the second was effortless. He didn’t have to add a stride or take off early. Sister loved this young thoroughbred’s sense of balance; he knew where his hooves were, which can’t be said of every horse. He might do something a little stupid because he was still green, but he was smooth and careful.

Everyone made it over the coops, while Bobby Franklin lost ground opening two red metal farm gates, one crooked on the hinges.

Clement, hearing hounds, knew he was still a long way from his den. He’d been so intent on visiting the vixen, he hadn’t paid attention to potential hiding places should trouble appear. He put on the afterburners, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the lead hounds as he could. That would give him time to think. St. Just shadowed his every move, signaling to Cora what was going on ahead. His cawing brought out other crows, themselves no friend to foxes. Soon the sky, dotted with fourteen crows, added to the panorama of startled deer, disturbed blue jays, and extremely put-out squirrels, chattering filth as hounds, horses, and humans roared under their trees.

When a run becomes this good, the pace this fast, the hell with footing. Sister moved her hands forward, crouched down, and hoped Aztec wouldn’t lose his hind end on an icy patch.

On occasion it occurred to her that she could die in the hunt field. She didn’t much mind, though she hoped it wouldn’t be until she’d cleared her one hundredth birthday, which she envisioned as a five-foot log jump.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Lorillard struggling with Cloud Nine. He finally got the big gelding straightened out, prudently pulling him back, forcing him to follow the others. The horse, accustomed to conventional trainers, wanted to be first. If he was going to win races, he needed to be rated. This was a good time to learn.

Tedi, Edward, Walter, Dalton, and Gray kept snug in Sister’s pocket. Crawford, Marty, and Sam fell farther behind with Ronnie in the middle between the two groups.

Ronnie saw Clement charge over the next hill. Hounds were far enough in front he need not worry about lifting their heads.

“Tallyho!” He hollered, taking his cap off and pointing in the direction in which the fox was traveling.

Sybil saw him, too. Sister did not, but she knew Ronnie knew his business. She pushed a little closer to the tail hounds, Delia and Asa, perhaps five yards from the main pack.

A large fallen walnut, as luck would have it, had crashed into the old coop in the next fence line. The branches fell forward of the coop so the massive trunk, its distinctive blackish bark, added a new look and height to the coop. Sister saw Shaker practically vault over it.

Aztec sucked back for an instant. Sister hit him with the spurs and clucked. Aztec knew if he refused it made for trouble behind him, but this jump might bite. “Well, it looks funny,” the horse grumbled before sailing over.

Behind, Cora and Dragon with Dasher and Diana couldn’t see the fox.

“You’ll chop him!” St. Just screamed with triumph.

Clement’s normal arrogance evaporated. He now ran for his life, running for the covert up ahead. Maybe he could foul his scent in there somehow.

He made it, flying by a pile of dirt about eighteen inches high. Farther into the underbrush, thinned by the weight of the snows and frosts now, he smelled a cache of deer meat.

He was smack in the home territory of a female mountain lion. A cave or rock den had to be close by. If he could find it, he’d duck in. Better to face one lone female than a pack of hounds.

He didn’t worry about young. Usually lion cubs are born midsummer.

As luck would have it, a huge rock formation in a slight swale of forest jutted out ahead. He leapt into the opening, large enough for the mountain lion and therefore large enough for hounds, one by one.

Awakened by the cry of the pack, the mature lioness weighed a well-fed two hundred pounds. She was just rising when the medium-size red fellow, all of seven pounds, invaded her home.

Panting, he looked up at her, crooning in his best voice, “How beautiful you are!”

Vanity is not limited to the human species. She blinked. “And who are you?”

“Clement of Mill Ruin, son of Target and Charlene, their second litter from last year. I confess, I’ve ducked in here to save my skin, but I had no idea I would find such a beautiful mountain lion. How could I have missed you? I thought I knew everyone.”

“My hunting range doesn’t overlap yours. Game is so good down here, I and some of my relatives came down out of the mountains. And . . .” She stopped a moment; the fur on her neck rose slightly. “Impertinent slaves!” she said of the barking hounds.

Before the words were out of her mouth, Dragon blasted into the cave. He skidded to a halt as both the lioness and Clement stared at him.

The rest of the pack piled in after Dragon, except for Cora, Diana, Dasher, Asa, and Delia. They knew what was in there.

Even Cora couldn’t stop the young entry.

Enraged at this trespassing, the lioness stood. She could leap twenty feet without undue effort. She bared her fangs, emitting a hiss. “Get out!”

Clement, too, bared his fangs, puffing himself up as best he could.

Shaker dismounted, handing Hojo’s reins to Betty. Sister didn’t know if a bear was in there or a mountain lion. She’d been running so hard she’d missed the telltale signs, the piles of dirt kicked up by the big cat’s hind legs to mark her boundaries, the slash marks on the trees much higher than those of a bobcat.

She couldn’t hear the hiss because the hounds were bellowing.

Shaker pulled out his .38. He didn’t want to kill any animal, but he had to protect his pack.

He put his horn to his mouth and blew the three long blasts. The smarter hounds turned to emerge from the opening, one by one. Shaker quieted them. Dragon, alone, remained inside. The hissing could now be plainly heard followed by a terrifying growl.

Hojo was brave, but shaking like a leaf. Mountain lions and horses rarely formed friendships. Hojo wanted out of there.

Outlaw, a little older and a quarter horse, said, “Hojo, Shaker’s a good shot. If he has to, he’ll kill the lion. We’re safe.”

Hojo rolled his eyes. “They’re so quick.”

“Dragon, come to me.” Shaker called outside the opening.

Hackles up, Dragon slowly, without taking his eyes off the mountain lion, backed out. She advanced. As Dragon made it out, the big cat stuck her head out, beheld the audience, and emitted a growl that turned blood to ice water.

“Tedi, get the field back,” Shaker said calmly.

“Janie, come on,” Tedi firmly ordered her old friend.

“I’m not leaving my huntsman, Betty, or the hounds. Now, go on.”

Reluctantly, Tedi moved the field back.

Shaker quickly mounted, not taking his eyes off the lion, who seemed content to scare the bejesus out of them.

In a steady voice, “Come on, come on, foxhounds. Good hounds.” Shaker turned, trotting off.

Betty, back on Outlaw, kept on his left side. Sybil was on the right. She’d stayed a short distance from the den in case hounds bolted. As Shaker and Betty had been on foot, this was a prudent decision.

Sister watched the mountain lion, whom she faced at a distance of thirty yards. She wanted to make certain the animal wasn’t going to chase them. She cursed herself for not carrying a gun. A mountain lion can bring down a deer at a full run. If the deer has enough of a head start, it will outrun the lion, but for a short distance, the speed of the mountain lion is startling. This powerful animal could easily bound up to one of the staff horses and attack. Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.

“Let’s get out of here.” Sister turned Aztec as the pack drew alongside her. They continued to trot. She glanced over her shoulder to see the beautiful cat still standing in her doorway, now a red fox sitting next to her.

Dragon, not a scratch on him, bragged, “I denned the fox. I stared down the mountain lion.”

“Idiot!” Cora cursed. “You could have killed half this pack.”

“But I didn’t,” he sassed.

That fast Cora turned, seized Dragon by the throat, sank her fangs into him, and threw him down hard. He fought back.

“Leave it! Leave it!” Shaker commanded.

Cora leapt up. Dragon, too, quickly got to his feet, blood trickling down his white bib.

“I will kill you one day if you don’t listen,” Cora growled low, almost a whisper.

The young entry, frightened of the lioness and blindly following Dragon, were now scared to death of Cora. They avoided eye contact with the head bitch.

“The fox was in the den!” Dragon coughed.

“Yes, he was,” Asa sagely replied. “Scent was hot, so hot none of us paid attention to the other scent. But, Dragon, when we reached those rocks, even a human could smell the lion. You were wrong.”

“My job is to chase foxes, put them to ground, kill them if I catch them.” Dragon coughed again. Cora had hurt his throat.

Cora whirled on the handsome dog hound. “Do you want me to shred you right now? I don’t care if I do get the butt end of a whip!”

Dragon shut up.

The pack trotted all the way back to Melton. Everyone had had quite enough for one day.

As Sister dismounted, she noticed Dalton, on the ground already, holding the reins of his horse as well as the reins of Izzy’s horse. She properly dismounted, stepping high a few times as her cold feet stung when she touched the earth.

Dalton slipped a halter over Izzy’s mount, then over his own horse’s head. There was nothing improper in their exchange, yet there was a tension, an electricity.

Later, propped up on three large pillows, down comforter drawn up, a fire crackling in the bedroom fireplace, Sister had two American Kennel Club dog books, one from 1935 with the breed standards corrected to 1941 and the latest from 1997.

Few foxhunters showed their hounds at AKC events. Foxhunting was a life’s work. Showing bench dogs was, too. Who had time for both? A foxhunter must breed a pack of solid, intelligent, good hounds. The show dog person need breed only one outstanding specimen, though as any show dog person can tell you, that’s a life’s work, too. The show people load their charges in minivans or big SUVs to travel around the country securing points toward their dog’s championship.

Sister didn’t consider bench shows empty beauty contests unless the breed, any breed, had fallen away dramatically from its original purpose. Irish setters came to mind. Today’s gorgeous mahogany creatures striding in front of judges often diverged sharply from the Irish setters used in the field.

Fortunately, English and American foxhounds never achieved the popularity in the bench show world that cocker spaniels, German shepherds, collies, Labradors, and others did. Foxhounds remained relatively consistent. The breed standard in her revised 1941 book proved no different from the one in 1997, except she thought the 1941 version easier to read.

The first American foxhound registered with the American Kennel Club was Lady Stewart in 1886. The photographs in each AKC volume displaying the American foxhound further confirmed the consistency in the breed standard. Hounds from her kennel looked like the two examples except they had scars from thorns; some, her D’s, had a broader skull than was deemed just right.

For a foxhunter, their shows, none of them associated with the AKC, took place all over the country, culminating in the Virginia Hound Show at Morven Park, Leesburg, the last weekend in May. Over a thousand hounds were shown, the ultimate for many being the pack class, a test unimaginable in the show bench world. A pack of hounds, led on foot by their huntsman, usually with two whippers-in, negotiated a course. The pack that operated as a pack, exemplifying the old expression “You could throw a blanket over them,” usually won. And beauty counted. Those packs where the individuals most resembled one another had a better chance than those where a small lemon-and-white hound worked with a big tricolor and some Talbot tans. Nonetheless, a good pack was a good pack even if Goliath and David ran together. If David could keep up and Goliath didn’t poop out early, a master could be very proud. But even to a casual observer, a pack of uniform size and conformation had a better chance of hanging together than one with variety.

Sister knew, as did all who breed seriously, that it ultimately comes down to their minds. The most beautiful hound in the world is worthless if he or she won’t hunt. The hound with the most drive in the world is useless if he or she won’t listen, if he or she wasn’t “biddable.”

Sister’s task was to breed an entire team of such outstanding individuals. Each year, this team would change: old hounds needed to retire, young hounds needed to learn the business and settle into their position. She could never rest on her laurels, but she could take justifiable pride in her pack.

Which is why she continued to study AKC shows, read and reread the standards, hunt behind other packs, whether American, English, Crossbred, or Penn-Marydels, as well as enjoy the deep music of the night hunters, casting their Walker, Trigg, Maupin, or Birdsong hounds.

A good hound was a good hound.

She loved hunting with Ashland bassets, learning each time that pack pushed out its quarry, each time a whipper-in quietly melted nearer to a covert to keep an eye on a young entry.

Virginia abounded in beagle packs: from Mrs. Fout’s pack, where one must be mounted and escorted by a child, to the more common type of packs, where one followed on foot.

When the opportunity arose, Sister was there, following, boots often squishing with mud, face torn by thorns. She didn’t feel a thing. The sounds of a pack in full cry spiked her adrenaline to such a pitch that she usually didn’t know she was bleeding until someone pointed it out to her back at the trailers.

Anyone who knew Jane Arnold knew she loved hounds. She’d go out with coon hunters and adored the sleek black-and-tan coonhounds, redbone hounds, even the ponderous bloodhound, king of all dogdom in terms of scenting ability. There was no hound on earth from which a foxhunter couldn’t profit by observing. Even dachshunds left to their own devices will return to their original purpose, which was to hunt quarry in dens. The dachshund packed a great deal of courage in that elongated body.

Sister, every three years or so, would make the pilgrimage to the Westminster Dog Show in New York City. Much as she liked watching all the breeds, her heart having a special place for Irish terriers and corgis—dogs she had had as pets in her lifetime—it was the hounds that enraptured her. Every year, like other hound people, she would pray it wouldn’t be one more prancing poodle, one more adorable terrier that this year would carry off the coveted Best in Show, that it would be a hound.

But hounds aren’t bred to show and prance. They’re bred to hunt. The qualities that appeal to show judges are rather insulting to a hound. His or her job is to put that nose to the ground and find the quarry, or, if a sight hound, to catch a glimpse of quarry and give rousing chase. Intelligence, determination, a beautiful stride, and marvelous lung capacity—such treasures may be overlooked by the judges as yet another fetching cairn, jaunty Scottie, or Standard poodle in full French cut paraded out like an actor greedy for applause. The hound doesn’t want applause; it wants the fox, the rabbit, the otter, the raccoon.

Year after year, Sister, like so many other devoted hound people, watched unbelievable specimens in the hound category be overlooked in the final showdown. Disappointed, angry, she’d return to the Carlyle Hotel, vowing never again to waste her money by coming back to Westminster. Of course, she didn’t outwardly display this anger, but to see once again the best of the hound group—a group now of twenty-two breeds—get passed by was too much!

The hound group in 1941 contained seventeen breeds. It had expanded over the decades, although not as much as other groups. That didn’t bother her. After all, each time a new breed is accepted by the AKC, it’s more money for them. She didn’t begrudge them that, even though some of the groups were so large one needed a No-Doz to sit through them.

No, she begrudged the prejudice against hounds.

“Godammit!” She threw the 1997 book on the floor. She picked up the older edition, much thumbed over the years, smoothing down the old spine before placing it on the nightstand.

Rooster, startled, barked, “What’s the matter with her?”

“Westminster’s coming up, first week of February, I think.” Raleigh chortled. “We’ll watch it on TV together. You won’t believe what will come out of her mouth. She gets so excited, we can’t let anyone else watch it with her, except for Betty and Tedi. They know her so well and love her so much, if she loses her temper and cusses a blue streak, they’ll laugh. Most people have no idea how passionate our mother is.”

“She has to keep a lid on it because she’s the Big Cheese,” Golly, on her back next to Sister, added.

“True,” Rooster agreed.

“Golly, Sister doesn’t go to cat shows. That’s proof she likes dogs better than cats,” Raleigh slyly said.

“Balls. Why go to a cat show? Every single cat is perfect, the crown of creation. The fun of a dog show is seeing the imperfections in you miserable canines.”

“How do you stand her?” Rooster whispered.

“By tormenting her.” Raleigh giggled.

“Furthermore, no cat in the universe is going to walk down a green carpet, stand on a table, and let some stranger inspect her fangs. Ridiculous. Why, I’d sink my fangs in the fat part of that silly judge’s thumb in a skinny minute.”

“Oh, you scare me.” Raleigh rolled his brown eyes. “I’ve got your catnip mousie, the one covered with rabbit fur. Thought I’d swallow it.” Raleigh put the little mousie in his mouth, fake tail dangling out.

“Thief!” Golly vaulted off the bed.

Raleigh just turned his head from side to side as Golly tried to get her mousie. Her stream of abuse reached such a pitch that Sister put down the more calming book she was reading, a reexamination of the Punic Wars.

“All right, Raleigh, give her the toy. Don’t be ugly.” She turned on her side, opened the drawer in the nightstand, and took out two greenies: little green bones made in Missouri. “Here.” She tossed one to Raleigh and one to Rooster.

Raleigh dropped the mousie to grab the greenie. Golly snatched up the soggy toy, leapt back up on the bed, and batted it around for good measure.

“You know, Golly, today is Mozart’s birthday in Salzburg, 1756.” Sister could remember dates. “Hmm, also the day of the cease-fire in Vietnam, 1972. A good day, I would suppose, January twenty-seventh.” She noticed the cat taking the toy, pulling back a corner of the pillow, and shoving it underneath.

“He won’t find it there, the big creep.”

Sister laughed, watching the cat. She abruptly stopped. “A cache. I didn’t notice the caches today. Like you, Golly, the big cat kept a kind of pantry. Don’t see too many of the mountain lions. I wasn’t looking for the signs, but foxes do the same thing, smaller scale.” She picked up the book, then let it fall in her lap. “My God, I’m a dolt.”

“Now what?” Rooster’s voice was garbled as he was chewing.

“A cache. The storage unit is a cache. Storage houses like that don’t just burn down. People don’t set fires to them to see the flames.” She looked at the animals, who were now looking at her. “But I don’t get it. What’s being hidden in that cache? What could be worth that kind of violence? And to whom? Clay? Xavier? Both? Who was found burned? I don’t get it.”

“Well, you’d better keep your mouth shut until you do,” Golly rudely but wisely said.