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 apackof solid, intelligent, good hounds. The show dog person need breed onlyoneoutstanding 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, Ithink.”Raleigh chortled.“We’ll watch it on TV together.You won’t believe what will come out of her mouth. Shegets so excited, we can’t let anyone else watch it with her,except for Betty and Tedi. They know her so well and loveher so much, if she loses her temper and cusses a bluestreak, 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 shelikes 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.”