The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 9

The New Year fell on Sunday. It was also the Feast of the Circumcision, a festival honoring the removal of the infant Christ’s foreskin. No doubt the early church introduced this celebration to replace pagan New Year frolics whose devotees found other things to do with their foreskins.

Sister, up before dawn, as usual, left Gray in bed sound asleep under a down comforter. Not a drinker, she had enjoyed last night’s champagne, but at this moment she enjoyed her hot tea even more.

After feeding the dogs and Golly, she pulled a heavy three-ply cashmere sweater over her head, wrapped a scarf around her neck, slipped her arms into her fleece-lined bomber jacket, and slapped on her cowboy hat.

She stepped outside into a charcoal-gray world and looked east, where a faint sliver of lighter gray lined the horizon. The snow clouds had cleared out last night. Breathing in the cold air, she felt seventeen years old. Raleigh and Rooster plowed behind her as her boots sank deep into the snow. Hard going though it was, she told herself this was terrific exercise for her thighs.

Not one hound mumbled as she approached the kennels. They always slept well after a hunt, and yesterday’s go had pooped them out.

Once inside the kennels, she put the two house dogs in the office. Removing her bomber jacket and draping it over the back of the office chair, she double-checked the clipboard on the desk.

Each hunting day, those hounds selected to go out had red checks by their names. She’d check their pads again, then note if anyone needed a little extra feed. She used the day’s roster to determine who would go out next hunt. One of her favorite times was going over the draw list with Shaker. They rated each hound’s work during the last hunt and each hound’s condition. She loved few things in life as much as her hounds. Raleigh, Rooster, Golly, and all the horses ranked right up there, too.

Then she walked into the feed room, a large square room with a huge drain in the center of the gently sloping concrete floor. The room could be power washed in ten minutes. The temperature inside the feed room was forty-five degrees, but it would rise when the hounds came in, and it would also climb a bit as the sun did.

Keeping hounds at temperatures humans find comfortable produces a sick hound. Their body heat when they sleep together keeps them warm, as does good food. It’s cruel to pamper a hound who, God forbid, might become separated from the pack and spend the night hunkered down in a covert or outbuilding somewhere. Hounds need to be hardy, fit, and resourceful.

The best thing any person who keeps animals can do is feed them properly, taking activity and season into account.

Sister filled the troughs with high-protein kibble: 26 percent during hunting season, 21 percent the rest of the time. She then poured a little hot water over it, along with corn oil.

First she pulled in the dog hounds. If the girls were fed first, their lingering enticing aroma could sometimes cause problems with the dog hounds.

Jefferson Hunt had separate housing away from the main kennels for gyps, the females, in season, connected by an arcaded walkway to the main kennel. Even when playing with hounds, Sister played with the dog hounds first. Sad to say, the girls evidenced much less interest in the boys than vice versa. After the dog hounds ate, she checked them. Everyone was fine—no bruised or cut pads, no barbed wire streaks on anyone’s back.

She repeated the process with the girls. When those exuberant ladies finished, she brought in the youngsters, who cheerfully gobbled every morsel. Finally, she brought in Asa and Delia, two older hounds, fed separately to give them time to relax. She mixed in vitamin powder with their warm kibble. As Asa was stiff in the mornings, she let him eat Rimadyl out of her hands. He thought the medicine was a treat, it tasted so good.

“Asa, this is your last year hunting. After this, I’ll need you to help me train puppies. If you don’t like that, you can come on up to the house, but you have to put up with Raleigh and Rooster.”

“It’s Golly that plucks my last nerve,” the gentlemanly hound smiled.

“Is that good?” Delia sniffed as Asa ate his Rimadyl.

“Candy.”

“Here.” Sister patted Delia on the head and let her eat one from her hand. “You don’t really need it, Delia, but one tab won’t hurt you.”

Asa and Delia then ambled to their separate quarters.

Usually Shaker fed the hounds. Sister tried to be there as often as she could, but being a master took time. Landowners called, as did members, each needing information or wanting to impart the same to her. She and Walter both secured and opened territory—another time-consuming process.

Apart from foxhunting, Sister sat on the board of directors for Custis Hall, helped raise funds for the SPCA, and had her farm to run. Seed and fertilizer, if ordered early, often came with a 10 percent discount. Each year what the fields needed varied. Fences might need repair or replacing. A household chore would always pop up: a dying refrigerator, a crack in the wall. It never ended, but she was never bored.

Gardening, second to foxhunting in her passions, restored her spirits if they happened to be flagging. Even in winter, looking over glossy holly bushes and various conifers delighted her and inspired her to plant more trees, bushes, and flowers come spring.

Sari would return to Colby tomorrow. Today would be Shaker and Lorraine’s last day with her until semester’s end, which was why Sister fed the hounds. When Shaker roused himself in about a half hour, he’d find everything done: hounds fed, yards picked, the manure spreader full.

A long low pink ray of light fell over the snows. She left a note for Shaker, tacking it on the bulletin board in the office. She couldn’t wait to get outside, for soon the world would be bathed in pink, then scarlet, and last, gold.

She put her bomber jacket back on. The dogs rose. The phone rang.

“Hello, Jefferson Hunt Kennels.”

“Sister, you come over here this instant and pick up your goddamned hounds!”

She recognized Iffy’s voice. “My hounds are in the kennels.”

“Oh, sure, that’s what you hunters always say. You pick up these hounds or you’ll never pass through my land again.” Iffy slammed down the phone.

“That girl needs charm school or Prozac. Maybe both.” Sister replaced the receiver as she talked out loud to Raleigh and Rooster. “Well, let’s crank up the party wagon. I don’t know whose hounds are out there, but we’ll pick them up.”

She drove slowly. The road looked smooth enough, but black ice could flip you on your side in a skinny minute.

Fortunately, no traffic gummed up the works. No motorist impatiently hung on her butt in an effort to speed her along. A large portion of the county would be nursing hangovers. They wouldn’t be out and about.

Iffy owned a small piece of land, thirty acres, give or take, south of Beasley Hall, Crawford’s large, pretentious estate. Iffy’s place rested twelve miles from Sister’s farm, but twelve miles on treacherous roads could take a half hour or longer.

When Sister finally pulled down the plowed drive, the sun had fully cleared the horizon. Snows glistened bloodred.

Black and tan hounds aimlessly ran about.

She stopped the truck, put the hunting horn to her lips, and blew three even long blasts. Hounds lifted their heads to stare at her. She blew the “come in” call again.

They trotted over the crusted snow toward her. A few heavier hounds broke through, leaping forward and up as snow sprayed in front of them.

“Good hounds,” she called to them in a cheerful voice.

She opened the door to the party wagon. They hopped in.

“That’s a blessing,” she thought to herself.

If they’d been shy, she’d now be on a wild-goose chase. She put up three couple of hounds, then continued down the drive. No more appeared. She stopped and knocked at Iffy’s back door. She could hear her thumping tread, then the door flew open.

“Happy New Year again, Iffy.”

“Bullshit! Did you get those damned hounds?”

“I picked up six. How many did you see?”

“I don’t know. Step in a minute. I’ll catch my death of cold.” Iffy motioned for Sister to step into the kitchen.

Sister noticed the .22 revolver on the kitchen table. She also noted that Iffy was moving along without her cane.

“I have never seen these hounds. They don’t have tattoo marks in their ears, and they don’t have collars either.” Sister forced a smile. “Our pack is tricolor, Iffy. These are black and tans, but they’re in good flesh. Someone has cared for them.”

Iffy did not thank her for picking up someone else’s hounds. “You’re the hound queen. You’ll find out who owns them before I do. I was ready to shoot them if one of them so much as bared a fang at me.”

“Did it sound as though they were hunting?”

“I don’t know. All I heard was my garbage cans knocked over.”

“I’ll pick up the mess,” Sister volunteered. “No point in you going out in the snow.”

“Some days are better than others. Most people stiffen up in the cold, but I have more trouble in the heat. Maybe it’s the medicine. I don’t know.” Her features, a little puffy, brightened. “Jason’s putting me on a new program for the New Year. He said my resolution is to build the strength back in my legs and”—she sucked in her breath—“lose the weight.”

“He takes good care of you.”

Iffy’s lower lip quivered. “I’m not even forty. I want my old self back. Jason’s lining up a physical therapist and a nutritionist.” She brightened again.

Sister put her hand over the old brown porcelain doorknob. “If I find out who these hounds belong to, I’ll let you know in case they come this way again.”

“Do that.” Iffy’s voice was friendlier.

Sister walked outside, careful on the steps. She walked to the side of the house. One can, lid off, had garbage strewn about. The others, on their sides, had the lids on tight. She scooped up the debris: orange rinds, coffee filters and grinds within, soup cans, and one large bottle—no label, but a whiff informed her it contained something potent. She gave thanks for the freeze. Made the task easier, and easier on the nose, too.

Given that the road to the barn hadn’t been plowed out, she trudged back there. No hounds.

As she drove out she pondered where to put these hounds. Since she had no idea as to their vaccinations or health records, she didn’t want them near her hounds. She reviewed hunt club members who might have a vacant stall in their barns or a secure outbuilding. She saw, coming in the opposite direction, Sam Lorillard.

She flashed her headlights. He flashed. They both stopped. The shoulders had snow piled up. They couldn’t get off the road. Fortunately, there wasn’t traffic on this back road.

One of the hounds yowled.

“Sister, where did you find them?”

“Iffy’s. Three couple. Crawford’s new pack?”

“A pack of escape artists. Got most back. Only one couple out now that you picked these up.”

“You might suggest that the boss appease Iffy as well as anyone else.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked from her party wagon to his small trailer. “Think we could get them in the trailer?”

“Better not take the chance, Sam. They might piss off again. How about if I take them to Beasley Hall? You follow me. Where do I put them?”

“The old unused barn in the back. Rory’s there patching up where they chewed through the rotted wood. Crawford has no sense.”

“Well, no hound sense. We’d know not to put them in there.”

Within twenty minutes the three had unloaded the hounds at Crawford Howard’s barn.

Struggling with ready-mix concrete, Rory tried to get it to the right consistency to slap over the chewed place. “Pretty hopeless in this cold.”

“Yeah. Got any riprap?” She named a large type of stone most quarries carried.

Sam piped up. “We do. Leftover from when Crawford put in the culverts.”

“My suggestion,” said Sister, “and it’s only a suggestion—you gentlemen do as you like—would be to take heavy-duty page wire, run it along the sides, curve in the bottom of the page wire, and put down riprap at the edges until you can properly pour concrete or sucrete.”

“It’s going to be a bitch to dig through this frost to get the wire down in the ground.” Sam did not relish this task.

“Yeah, it is; and bending it forward is no picnic either. Crawford might not want to spend the money on page wire and concrete. He’s going to build a new kennel, right?” Sister inquired.

“Right,” Rory answered.

“You can’t have these hounds running all over the country. Apart from the bad will it creates, some will get killed. They don’t know where they are yet. This is going to be hard as hell to patch up until the temperature is in the high forties at least. I think you’re going to have to spend the money on cinder blocks against the wall and some kind of grid like Equistall for the floor. You’ve got to secure these hounds.”

Crawford had walked in behind them.

Sister turned when she heard the bootsteps. “Happy New Year, Crawford.”

“She brought back three couple of hounds that were at Iffy Demetrios’s,” Sam quickly apprised his boss.

“Iffy is, well, Iffy.” Sister shrugged. “I’ll be getting on home. If I see any more, I’ll pick them up.”

It pained him, but Crawford was man enough to utter “Thank you.” He then puffed out his chest. “They won’t get out again.”

“Dumfreishire blood?” Sister asked sharply, knowing from their looks that the hounds had that type of Scottish blood. Although originally hunted in Scotland, the Dumfreishire was classified as an English hound.

“Right.” Crawford nodded.

“Handsome.” She left them to their labors and thought how foolish Crawford was thinking he could handle this type of hound.

The Dumfreishire, a large handsome hound, would be less high-strung than an American hound, but the good-looking black and tans would rapidly discover that Crawford knew nothing. They’d hunt on their own, discounting him. Also, their nose, not quite as good as that of the American hound, would frustrate him.

The English hound developed in a land of abundant moisture and rich soils. The red clay of central Virginia, occasionally enlivened by Davis loam, put the picturesque English hound at a disadvantage. Crawford would blame the hound, not himself.

On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.

They were big, they were beautiful. That part would swell his ego. Maybe he should just mount up and parade them around until he could find a real huntsman.

As she passed the beginnings of the stone St. Swithun’s Chapel she had ample time to consider the unholy mess Crawford was creating for himself—and for her, too.

“Happy New Year.” She sighed.

As she drove through the imposing gates, two huge bronze boars guarding the entrance had icicles dangling from their snouts. Their bristly chests glistened with ice rivulets. She turned west.

A quarter mile down the road she noted Donny Sweigart’s treads from last night’s supposed deer hunt.

Curious, she pulled as far off the road as she could given the conditions, hit her flashers, and got out. She wanted to see if there was a carcass or deer offal in the snow. She looked down the slight embankment, then over the expanse of snowy meadow. A copse of trees and shrubs stood out against the white. Something bright caught her eye.

She slid down the embankment. Tracks were partly covered with snow, but she could make out boot marks. She followed them toward the copse. Once there she saw a glob of congealed blood, fist sized, bright red.

There were no signs of struggle, no feathers either. If Donny had set out a trap she’d see it. No trap.

It was eerie, a hunk of frozen blood. She returned to her truck wondering what the hell was going on.