Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 14

February 19, 2020 Wednesday

“I remember him.” John Wickline smiled, bent down to rub Asa’s ears.

“Retired now. My ‘A’ line is a great one. So now his job is to teach the youngsters their ABC’s. He goes on, walks with them.” Sister looked down at the hound senior citizen. “He crawls into your heart.”

Tootie and Weevil stood at a distance while Sister walked John through the kennels, showed him the outer runs, all of which he knew, but she figured better safe than sorry. Both of them walked outside the high chain-link fence. The Animal Control officer could clearly see the condos, now outfitted for winter. The condos, large boxes, twelve feet by twelve feet by twelve feet, sat up on heavy raised posts. Each condo was insulated as well as being filled with deep fresh straw. The straw was changed weekly. The roofs were peaked. They, too, were insulated inside. In winter a heavy door reduced the opening size to retain heat. A sloping walk-up, thirty degrees, had inch-wide raised strips across the grade to make getting in and out easier, especially if icy. All had a wraparound porch. The outdoor runs fed into the indoor housing but many of the hounds preferred their condos; there were two in each big run. Part of the appeal was a hound could easily walk outside under the stars and inhale deeply. All those night hunter scents filled the air.

The snow, three inches, fluffy, contrasted with the white condos, a bit of green trim around the doors for effect. Tootie and Weevil picked those yards clean as the sun came up.

Although picked daily in the afternoon, they wanted the yards to be as clean as possible, which they were.

Now inside, Sister reminded John of the medical room as she opened the door. “When we do suffer an injury or need an operation, say having a tumor removed, it can be done here. Our vet comes out. If it’s complicated, we take the hound to Dr. Ligon. Rarely do we need to do that.”

“I remember when you remodeled the inside of these kennels. I’d just taken the job. You could operate on a person in here.”

Sister laughed. “Cost a lot less. I remember you wondering why we would put in a steel operating table, purchase instruments, an oxygen mask, the big refrigerator. Over time, seeing what can happen to anyone’s dog, I realized not having to transport an animal in distress really helps. Then again, Dr. Ligon really helps, too.

“She’s the best. Don’t know if you recall my now-deceased hound, Lilybee. She had gotten caught between two tree limbs, tree on the ground after a storm, and dislocated her hip. The poor girl was in so much pain and we had to take her to the clinic. This would not be a simple fix. Well, Jessica,” she named Dr. Ligon by her first name, “wired her back together, reattached ligaments, then we had to keep her from running around, so Lilybee came here to the recovery room, and recover she did. What a sweet girl. Anyway, a hound can run sixty miles on a fast day. No more hunting for her once the bandages and supports came off. I used her for a schoolmarm. And…” Sister opened the medical room back out to the indoor girls’ dormitory. “Look here. Come on and show yourself, Tootsie.”

John looked down at Tootsie, who looked up with her soft brown eyes. “Hello, Tootsie.” Then he chuckled. “Do you ever call Tootie Tootsie?”

Tootie and Weevil, steps behind them in case a hound needed to be brought out, giggled.

Sister turned around. “If I did that to you, would you hunt on all fours?”

“I do whatever my master tells me. That’s foxhunting, right?” The beautiful young woman grinned. “Mr. Wickline, here.” She handed him a small treat, as both she and Weevil usually carried a pocketful.

He took the treat and held it as Sister opened the door. Tootsie daintily took the treat then scampered back through the door to the larger living quarters, the indoor ones with raised benches.

“Granddaughter on the male side. The boys look a great deal like Lilybee, too. While you’re here, would you like to see the medical records?”

“Show me where they are. I don’t need to read anything. And I apologize again for the time this is taking.”

“You’re the one who has to write this up. It will take you more time than it takes us. Which reminds me, I thought you were bringing an assistant.”

“Didn’t show up for work. No work ethic anymore.”

Sister beckoned Weevil and Tootie to her. “And here I have two young people who live to work.”

“Madam,” Weevil always correctly addressed the master in public as “Master” or “Madam.” “This isn’t work.”

“Thank you.” She did love those two.

“I think we’ve covered the kennels. Did I miss anything?”

“Come on, let me show you the records, then we can go to the stables.” She walked him to the office, warmer than the actual kennels.

Kennels should have some warmth in cold weather but if a master allows the kennels to be at a temperature comfortable for a human, they risk hounds not being able to effectively work in cold. The other consideration is that hounds and horses’ ideal outside temperature is lower than what a human likes. Most humans feel best in 68–72 degrees. That’s way too hot for hounds and horses, although they can work outside in the heat, but not for hours on end. It’s cruel to them, even if it feels okay to the human. This is why cubbing calls for judgment based on the animals, and not the people. Also, when the temperature rises, a huntsman must allow hounds to drink whenever they wish.

By now John Wickline had learned things. He’d read, studied, asked questions over the years.

“Wow,” he exclaimed when he walked into the inviting office.

The Louis XV desk sat in the middle of the floor, where the old clunky school desk once sat.

“You weren’t born when Uncle Arnold’s Louis XV desk was in here,” she teased him, as he was in his late thirties. “About twenty-two years ago it was stolen. Never found it, couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing. Harry Dunbar, the antiques dealer, willed me this. An overwhelming gift.” She dropped into the chair. “Do I look royal?”

“Always.” John smiled.

She opened the middle drawer, handed him a sheaf of papers. “These are the bloodlines I am currently studying.” She rose, walked over to the bank of wooden cabinets along an interior wall. “This cabinet contains all the medical records for the last thirty years. The stuff starting in 1887 is in the next room. I have everything. My late husband’s uncle was obsessive. I hasten to add that I really am not, but Weevil keeps me on track, as does Shaker.”

She mentioned her huntsman of many years, currently on a medical leave.

“Well, I have no worries. I’ve taken photos of the hounds. Hard to argue with a photograph. Stables?”

Sister pulled on her gloves, was helped into her coat by Weevil. Tootie and Weevil stayed in the kennels as Sister and John walked across the snowy path to the stables, where Betty Franklin waited. Betty didn’t work in the stables but she kept her two horses there. The stables, like the kennels, sparkled, smelled fresh.

The two women brought each horse into the center aisle, removing the animals’ stable rug, lighter than the outdoor blanket, so John could take photographs.

Betty lifted each hoof so the officer could inspect the hooves. This operation used up almost two hours, because they then showed him the feed, the quality of the hay, and the shelf with supplements for those horses needing them.

One more station remained, the house. The two women and John walked to the house, where Gray had not only spruced things up, he’d actually groomed the dogs. Golly, of course, was impossible.

After this, a half day had passed.

“Sure you don’t want lunch or a sandwich for the road?” Sister asked.

“No. Again, I apologize, but I must obey the ordinance. I can’t promise that this is nipped in the bud and you know I can’t tell you who lodged the complaint, but I can hint that there are those who are anti-hunting, more and more of them.”

“Well, I’m glad we got to visit a bit, no matter what the circumstances. This does seem like so much exhaustive effort burned to deal with something that is a deep part of our history.”

John shook each person’s hand then left by the back door. Gray, teapot at the ready, poured tea.

“What a host you are.” Betty thanked him as she put cookies on the table.

“Cookies. I wouldn’t dirty my mouth with a cookie,” Golly complained.

“I would.” Rooster sat by Sister’s knee, the picture of devotion. Raleigh leaned on Betty, who gave in.

“How did it go?” Gray asked.

“He saw everything. The odd thing is, we have a record and now a recent visual one, for he took pictures. Actually, I believe masters should have an animal control visit at least once a year. Doesn’t have to be like this, but John had no choice and neither did we.”

“It’s the new people.” Betty pronounced this with gusto.

Gray broke a peanut butter cookie in half. “Betty, maybe, but even without this new influx flooding Virginia, there have always been people opposed to hunting. Some are adamant about not killing animals.”

“We don’t,” Betty interrupted.

“Of course, Betty, but who knows that? Foxhunters have been rotten about educating the public.” Gray, having worked in Washington, D.C., for years, possessed insight into the urban and suburban mind.

“He’s right, Betty.” Sister turned to Gray. “But remember we were taught that our names should only appear in the newspaper when we were born, when we married, and when we died. Anything else was considered vulgar.”

“It is.” Betty stood up, poured herself more tea, and topped off Sister’s and Gray’s cups. “It truly is.”

“What about Facebook?” Gray’s eyebrows rose.

“You don’t see me doing it. Exposing yourself in that way is vain. Why would anyone assume they are that interesting?”

Sister laughed, dropping her forehead into her hand for a moment. “Betty, you have just offended millions of Americans, plus whoever else in the world is taking a selfie at this moment.”

“Betty, you’re younger than we are. I’d think you’d be part of this,” Gray teased her.

Betty leaned back in the kitchen chair. “I suppose writing a letter is a form of exposure, but that’s private, and if you take the time to actually write using good paper, which my husband and I carry, in case you forgot,” she smiled mischievously, “you think a bit. Simply going to your iPad or your computer and firing off what comes into your head without reflection, I believe it does more harm than good. I need time to think things through.”

“Not when you’re whipping-in.” Sister meant this as a compliment.

“That’s different. That’s action. We think on our feet out there. Actually, we think on four feet.”

“You’d imagine that people would find that a challenge.” Sister liked running after an animal who could think and turn at a ninety-degree angle, who could make a complete fool out of horses, humans, and hounds. Who could and did.

“They don’t grow up in the country. A house on a two acre lot is the country to them. Riding on a lawnmower that costs five thousand dollars is doing your chores. They live in a different world. They could care less about country people, if they even know we exist.”

“Well, Betty, they do, or they wouldn’t be passing anti-barking ordinance laws.” Sister sighed as the phone rang.

Gray walked over to pick up the landline. He listened. “She’s right here.” He held out the phone, whispering, “O.J.”

Sister took the phone while Gray seated himself and the two dogs kept pressing for cookies. Betty noticed the look on Sister’s face.

“I am so sorry. I know she was one of your oldest and most supportive members. Let me know if there’s anything we can do. I know you have a lot to do. Let’s talk when you’re not so pressed.” She listened then said, “Bye. Love you.”

“What’s going on?” Betty held her cup midair, focused on whatever the news would be.

Sister returned to the table. “Remember me telling you about the Munnings painting being stolen in Lexington? The painting of the beautiful Mrs. Oliver Filley riding sidesaddle? It was owned by Delores Buckingham. She’d supported the hunt club for years, was in her eighties. Well, she was strangled leaving her house. No one saw a car or a person. Or no one says they did. Oh, another lead shank. Fennell’s.”

Gray said, “It may be the old story, who has most to gain? The lead shank method seems unnecessary.”

“Quite.” Sister added, “But there are different kinds of gain. We’re focused on money. What if this is about something else?”

Later, settled in the library, dogs asleep at their feet, Golly snuggled next to Sister on the sofa, both humans finally home, each reading a magazine that interested them.

On the coffee table, Michael Hicks’s detailed biography of Richard III lay, the bookmark at page 93. Sister would tackle it again tomorrow. Mr. Hicks’s knowledge, deep and wide, impressed her, but she had to rev her mental energy to read it. At this moment her engines were slowing down. It had been a long day.

“What are you hmming about?” she asked as she glanced up from her Garden and Gun magazine filled with enticing photographs.

Looking up from his Economist, he replied, “This bug in Wuhan, China. Spreading.”

“Bugs do that. Then again, China has so many people crammed together, has to be a field day for bacteria and viruses. A form of pestilential paradise.”

He folded the magazine in half. “Doesn’t matter where something starts, all those things travel easily. It’s creeping into Italy, Europe. Think of Ebola.”

“I’d rather not,” she teased him. “I remember the day the polio vaccine was hailed; 1955. Mother said it was a miracle and it was. I remember one of the boys at school coming down with polio. He lived but was crippled. Think of all the diseases that have been conquered or greatly reduced.”

“You’re right. I take a lot for granted. I eat good food, there’s an abundance of it. We have central heating and air-conditioning. We can move about freely. I think restoring the home place has made me appreciate what my ancestors did. Tough people, the Lorillards and the Laprades.”

“Still are.”

He placed the folded Economist in his lap. “I wonder. Think how our ancestors worked, used their bodies. Even baking bread takes effort, and women did it every morning. If rich, they had a cook who did it. Can you imagine getting a toothache? When we worked on the flue…well, there are two of them, in decent shape, but you can’t fool around with a chimney…it reminded me that twice a day the fires needed to be stoked. The only insulation was horsehair. Honey, they were tough. No wonder men started splitting wood in the middle of the summer. Then you had to stack it, it needed a year to cure. The cured wood from the prior year had to be brought into a woodshed near the house. No one wants to fetch wood in a blizzard, so there had to be places inside the house that were safe to store flammable material, and I haven’t even gotten to food storage.”

“Not much. Well, canning, and if a family built a smokehouse, that helped with meat. We are spoiled. On the other hand, most people unless disgustingly rich had fabulous bodies.”

He laughed. “Vanity. I expect some of the disgustingly rich had pretty good bodies, too. How did we get off on this?”

“China.”

“Oh, well, how is your Garden and Gun?”

She sighed. “One temptation after another. I am so glad my mother curbed my impulsiveness or I’d buy most of what I see in the magazine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Louis XV desk.”

“Now, Gray, Harry Dunbar willed me that.”

“If he hadn’t died, you would have found a way and snookered me into helping.”

“Well—-maybe. I mean, what’s the point of loving someone if you don’t spoil them a little?”

He left his chair by the fireplace, leaned over her as she sat on the sofa. “You can spoil me anytime you please.”