Full Cry

CHAPTER 5

“Are you doing this to irritate me?” Delia, mother of the D litters, crossly said to Trudy, a racy second-year entry.

“No,” the young hound replied as they walked through the snow. The humans accompanied them on foot this Tuesday morning.

Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil Bancroft—she’d taken back her maiden name—each wearing warm boots, marveled at the beauty of this crisp morning.

The snow did not stop Sunday night as predicted, but floated down throughout Monday, finally ending late Monday night. The road crews in Virginia, more accustomed to dealing with flooding conditions or old macadam roads bubbling up in fierce heat, worked twenty-four hours even in the storm to keep the interstates open. Given that Virginia generally gets far less snow than upstate New York, the state budget allowed for the purchase of only a small number of snowplows. Close to the mountains it snowed more regularly, so the state, and it was a good plan, sold the work out to local people. Anyone with a snowplow attachment to a heavy-duty truck, a bulldozer, or even a big old dump truck could earn some extra money during the storms. The dump trucks followed the plows. As the snow would be scraped up and piled to the side, the dump truck driver would slowly release a load of sand. Sometimes salt would be mixed in with the sand, wreaking havoc on the underbodies of older cars and trucks.

Unless more snow fell, or, worse, the temperature climbed and it rained, the New Year’s Hunt would go off without a hitch. And it would be beautiful, given the snow.

All the hounds that were not in season or were puppies came out on hound walk today. Sister and Shaker wanted to see if anyone was footsore or not moving properly. Both master and huntsman bordered on the fanatical concerning hound care. The Jefferson Hunt pack of American foxhounds enjoyed robust health, shining coats, and clean teeth. Their monthly expenses ran at about $1,500, give or take a few hundred, depending on special events such as a whelping difficulty, which would entail a veterinary bill.

Sister Jane’s kennel standards were so high she was often cited as a model by other hunts. Individuals hoping to start a pack of foxhounds made the journey to see her kennels and hounds. They came from as far as California.

The pack knew they were splendid. Even on hound walk they moved in long fluid strides, brimming with confidence, bright eyes, and cheerful demeanors. This was a happy pack.

However, at this exact moment, Delia wasn’t happy. She feared being left in the kennel for New Year’s Hunt due to her age. While indeed the territory was demanding, her conformation was so good, her lung capacity and heart girth perfect, that she showed no signs of breaking down. Still, she had slowed a little, and Dragon, Dasher, and Diana, her third-year litter, pushed up front. Last year’s litter—now in their first year, Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, and Diddy—also possessed speed, as well as their mother’s power of endurance.

Trudy, also quite fast, was walking next to Delia. She bumped the older hound by accident, turning around to see what Betty Franklin was laughing about. A young hound didn’t bump into an older hound without repercussion; the older hound took this as a challenge to authority. Kennel fights could be started with less provocation. Fortunately this pack had few of those.

“You mind your manners,” Delia growled.

The other hounds knew not to respond, even Dragon, a real smartass. While Delia was not the head bitch, she was older, and the other hounds knew their place. Cora, the head bitch, lorded it over everyone. She used her power wisely, but no one except for the first-year entry, who weren’t born yet, would forget the hunt when Dragon disobeyed her: she bumped him so hard he fell on his side, and then she sat right on him. When he struggled to get up, she threw him down again, this time with her jaws on his throat. Dragon deserved it, and he might challenge other hounds, but he had yet to challenge Cora again. That reminder of who was boss kept the rest of the season running smoothly.

Above Cora on the ladder of authority were Shaker and Sister. The hounds respected the two whippers-in, but didn’t necessarily think those two humans were pack leaders. Sometimes it was hard for the pack to remember that Sister and Shaker were humans. To the hounds, they were flawed hounds on two legs, yet possessing special gifts such as better sight during daylight.

The going would be tough on Thursday, so Sister and Shaker closely watched hounds. No one with even a slight crack in his or her pad could go out since they would be crossing icy creeks. Better not to take a chance of cutting open a crack. Any hound who was a bit weedy wouldn’t be going out. On a day like Thursday might be, some slim hounds ran off every bit of extra fat they had, and Sister didn’t want that. If a hound ran off too much weight during the season, it was hard to put it back on until the off-season. She monitored weight daily. All her hounds enjoyed good lung capacity, but Delia, well built, was older, as was Asa and a few others. Steady and true as they were, and therefore worth their weight in gold, Sister was indeed considering keeping them in the kennel on this particular High Holy Day.

A good hound cries, whines, howls when it sees the rest of the pack go to the draw pen. It’s like a quarterback being benched.

Each branch and bough, the sunken lane, the top of the ridge, sparkled with a million tiny rainbows as the sun rose. First the snows were blue, then pink, then orange to scarlet, and finally white, with the rainbows dazzling everyone.

Athena, wings close to her body, dozed in a blue spruce. Her nest wasn’t far, but she didn’t feel like going inside just yet. She opened one golden eye, peering down at the hounds and humans, then she closed it. Athena, over two feet high, occasionally worked with the foxes. As they flushed game on the ground, she’d swoop down and snatch up a mouse. She would sometimes tell the groundlings where mice, rabbits, and other creatures moved about. She didn’t make a habit of it, though. She preferred working alone.

Sometimes Bitsy, the little screech owl, now residing in Sister’s barn, flew alongside her. Athena could tolerate Bitsy only until she let out one of her hideous screeches, which the little bird thought so melodious. Tin ear.

Cora caught a whiff of Athena. No point mentioning it. Owl wasn’t game. And it wouldn’t do to get on the bad side of Athena.

They walked a mile west, then turned back. The return was easier since they didn’t have to break snow.

Asa moved up alongside Delia. “What do you think?”

“They need us,” she answered. “If Sister and Shaker put in too many of the T litter, they’ll be toast. Those young’uns haven’t settled yet.”

On hearing this, Trident couldn’t help but protest. “We’ve done really, really good.”

“Oh? I recall during cubbing that you wanted to track a skunk.” Asa chuckled.

“No fair. My first real hunt.” Trident, handsome, with unusually light eyes, didn’t appreciate the reminder.

The other hounds giggled.

“They love the snow,” Betty said, smiling, upon hearing the low chatter among the pack.

“That they do. Much rather be out in this than those hot September mornings,” Sybil agreed.

“I start at seven, and it’s boiling by eight.” Sister, on the front left corner, chimed in.

“Summer in Virginia can stretch into November sometimes,” Shaker said.

“Not this year.” Betty laughed. “I can’t remember this much snow. In 1969 we had a lot, or maybe we didn’t. Maybe I just remember it because it snowed like blazes on Easter.”

“No one could get to church.” Sybil, too, remembered. She had been in grade school.

“We’ve been lucky this year.” Sister paid a lot of attention to the weather. “This was our fourth year of drought. Without the wet fall and snow to date, I think we’d all be cooked this summer. My well has never run dry and Broad Creek has never run dry, but I think it would have happened this summer without this rain and snow.”

“I remember the first time I traveled out west,” said Sybil. “Mom and Dad sent Nola and me to a dude ranch in Sheridan, Wyoming. Loved it. But that’s where I learned the history of the West is the history of the battle for water. They killed one another for it in the nineteenth century. Drought is a part of their history. Pretty rare here.”

“Westerners kill one another with SUVs instead of six-guns.” Betty laughed.

“That’s California.” Sybil smiled. “Wyoming, they drive trucks just like us.”

“Beautiful place, parts of it.” Sister, like Sybil, loved the West, including the Canadian West. She bore a deep respect for Canadians.

They turned into the kennels. Sister, Betty, and Sybil watched as the hounds bounded into the draw yard, to be separated there into the bitch yards and the dog yards.

“Well?” Betty’s light eyebrows quizzically shot upward.

“Given conditions, I think I’d better leave first entry in the kennels. It’s a lot to handle: all those people. I really shouldn’t have taken out those two couple for Christmas Hunt. I mean, even though the field is behind the hounds— God willing.” They laughed because dumb stuff does happen. “All the excitement is pretty overwhelming for a young hound.”

“Our hounds are high. No doubt about that.” Sybil said this with pride. While a high pack is harder to handle, Sybil believed they showed much better sport, as did everyone else on staff.

This was not a belief shared by every foxhunter. The four types of foxhound—American, English, Crossbred (a cross between the American and English hound), and the Penn-Marydel hound—reflected different philosophies of hunting, as well as adaptation to different climates and terrain.

American hounds possessed high drive, sensitive temperaments, and good noses. They were often racy-looking, although the old American bloodlines might have heavy bones.

Added to the hounds used for mounted hunting were foxhounds for foot hunting or night hunting: Walkers, Triggs, even Redbones and Blueticks could do the job if trained for fox scent. These, too, were wonderful canines, each displaying special characteristics.

Such a wealth of canines created passionate discussions about which hounds are best for what. Foxhunters and all Southerners learned as children that you can criticize a man’s wife and children before you can say word one about his hounds.

Although loath to admit it, Sister, too, fell into that slightly fanatical category. She kept her mouth shut about it, but she was devoted, passionate, even rapturous about the American foxhound, especially those carrying the By-waters bloodline. This didn’t mean she wouldn’t listen to other hound people, and she had ridden behind packs of other breeds that would have made any master proud. But she loved the American foxhound with her heart and soul.

“Okay, boss,” Shaker called from the draw yard.

The hounds, bellies full, retired to their respective runs for sleep or conversation.

Sister, Betty, and Sybil joined Shaker in the small toasty kennel office. Sister sat on the edge of the desk, Shaker leaned against the refrigerator, Sybil and Betty perched on the old office chairs.

“Coffee?” Shaker offered.

“God, yes.” Betty rose and poured herself a cup from the eternally percolating pot. She blinked, realized she’d forgotten her manners, and handed the cup to Sybil, who laughed at her.

“Okay, this is what I think. First year in the kennels. We can take all the second-year entry, and I’m still debating about our oldest hounds.” Sister thought a moment, then spoke a bit more rapidly. “Unless there’s a big change in the weather or injury, let’s take Delia, Asa, and the few older citizens. I don’t think we’re going to have a four-hour hunt in the snow on Thursday. I really don’t. And this will be their last High Holy Day; they need to retire after this season.”

“I have dibs on Asa.” Sybil held up her hand.

“After cubbing. I’ll need them with me to start our next year’s entry, but he’d be happy to grace your hearth.”

“He’ll hunt,” Shaker mentioned.

“Oh, well, he can hunt to his heart’s content. All the foxes at the farm will hear him coming.”

They would indeed, for Asa had the voice of a basso profundo.

“Do you want me to come over to the kennels?” Sybil inquired.

“No. We’re hunting from your farm. Might as well stay there. We’ll meet you at the party wagon.” Sister called the hound trailer—a refitted horse trailer—the party wagon.

“Hope it’s a good go.” Sybil’s eyes brightened.

“Hope it’s a good year.” Betty laughed.

“If we’re all together, we’re healthy, the hounds are healthy, it’s going to be a banner year.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Shaker held up his coffee mug.

The others followed suit, touching one another’s mugs.