“Sure looks like he did.” Sister glanced out the window. “It’s like drawing through a heavy covert: you know the fox is in there, but you can’t get him up and running. I’ve seen days when hounds, my hounds and other packs, too, have drawn right over a fox. I feel that’s what’s going on.”
“What do you do on a day like that?”
“Keep moving, but,” she paused dramatically, “later you can come back and draw in the opposite direction. Sometimes you can get him up that way because he didn’t expect it.”
Walter tapped his spoon on the side of the mug, then stopped.“Sorry.”
“Is that how you think?”
“I have to do something rhythmic,” he replied.
“I do my best thinking working outside or sometimes in bed just before I fall asleep. But do you see what I mean about drawing over the fox? We’re drawing over those deaths, over information.”
“I’d put it another way. You’re on the right track, but the train’s not in the station.”
“Not yet.”
CHAPTER 30
The burnt orange of Betadine stained Dragon’s white fur. Aggressive and domineering as he could be with other hounds, he was an uncommonly sweet hound to people.
He stood on the stainless steel examining table as Sister and Gray sponged his wounds with antiseptic.
Lifting sixty-to eighty-pound hounds tested Sister after the sixth hound. Shaker had wanted to help, but his ribs needed to heal, so Sister threw him out of the med room. She had realized that her planned date with Gray at the club would either have to be canceled or pushed back too late, so she had called him to cancel. Since tomorrow was Saturday, the biggest hunting day of the week, she didn’t want to stay out late, plus she was nervous about hunting the hounds. To Sister’s surprise, Gray volunteered to help with her chores.
Riding, resplendent in perfectly fitting attire, pleases any foxhunter. Hearing“Gone Away” on the horn, hounds in full cry, is a thrill beyond compare. Few foxhunters, however, evidence any desire to be in the kennels picking up poop, feeding and watering, washing down the feed room and the runs, birthing puppies, or tending to sick or injured hounds in the med room.
The blood still seeped from Dragon’s wounds. Sister’s old lab coat bore testimony to that. Gray, too, wore a lab coat smeared with mud and bloodstains.
Dragon was the third hound they worked on. Two hounds had run under barbed wire Thursday, slicing their backs, although they had bled very little.
The fact that Gray was willing to forgo a fancy dinner and, on top of that, to lift hounds, get dirty, and dab wounds gave him an added luster in Sister’s eyes.
Gray was the same height as Sister. He was fit and uncommonly strong, as was his wiry, much shorter brother.
Carrying a beloved red ball, Raleigh padded in to watch, as did Rooster. Golly heard there were mice in the office, so she, too, accompanied the humans and dogs.“Death to mice” was Golly’s motto.
“Bon sang ne sait mentir”was Sister’s motto, archaic French, which meant, “Good blood doesn’t lie.” This was fitting for a foxhound breeder, but equally fitting for the human animal. Blood tells.
“There you go, big fella. Guess you won’t cross Cora again.” Sister gave Dragon a cookie for his good behavior before Gray lifted him down.
“Handsome.”
“That he is. Diana and Dasher turned out quite good-looking, too, but with a better temperament in the field. Dragon is hardheaded when hunting, and yet such a love the rest of the time.”
“My nose is the best. I get sick of Cora double-checkingeverything. I don’t care if she is the strike hound and the head bitch,”Dragon explained himself.
“Kennel up.” Sister pointed to the sick bay kennel, a series of separate pens with cozy boxes off the med room. Each of these rooms had a small outside run that could be shut off. Each room contained its own wall heater, high on the wall so the hound couldn’t get on its hind legs to chew it. Since hounds curl up together in cold weather, they are able to keep warm; but a hound alone could use a little help in winter, especially if he or she has been injured or isn’t feeling well.
Dragon obediently walked into his place. Sister closed the door behind him, dropping the latch. The other two hounds were already asleep in their pens.
Fortunately, none of these hounds had suffered severe wounds. They’d most likely be back hunting within a week. If the wounds didn’t close up to Sister’s satisfaction, she’d keep the hound out of hunting, although not out of hound walk. No point in reopening wounds and delaying healing, but if a hound can be exercised, that’s good for him mentally.If the animal wasn’t ready to rejoin the pack, Sister would hand walk him. Each of these hounds pulled his weight in the pack, so she wanted them up and running.
Gray washed his hands in the big stainless steel sink.“I never realized how much work there is.”
“All day, every day.” She hung up her lab coat, inspected it, then took it off the hook. “Laundry time.”
“Ever get tired of this? It’s a lot of physical labor, plus the actual hunting.”
“I love it.” Her face shone. “I couldn’t live without it. Everyone needs a paradigm for life, and hunting is mine. Hunting islife. The way a person foxhunts is the way he or she lives.”
“True.” He wiped his hands on a thick terry cloth towel. “I think that’s true about any sport, the way someone plays tennis or golf.” He thought for a second. “Maybe a little less true of the team sports because you have help, but stilclass="underline" character will out.”
“Hand me your lab coat.” She took the coat and draped it over her arm. “It is funny, isn’t it, how we spend our childhood and adolescence constructing our social masks with the help of our parents, family, friends, and school, and then something unmasks us? Usually sports, love. People are always unwittingly revealing themselves. Me, too.” She opened the door to the laundry room, tossing the coats, plus other odds and ends, into the industrial-size washer. “This thing’s about to go. Can’t complain. It’s been chugging along eight years. You wouldn’t believe the doghair we pull out of here. Same with the horse blankets. Sometimes I envy those critters their fur. No clothing bills.”
“Oh, but you look so good in warm colors—peach, pink, red. Now if you had the same old fur coat, that wouldn’t be the case.” He handed her the detergent.
“You look good in every color of the rainbow,” she countered.
“Uh-uh,” he disagreed. “Not gray or beige.”
“Didn’t think about that. Blond colors. Walter colors.”
“Kill!”Golly screamed from the office.
Sister and Gray looked at each other as the house dogs ran to the closed office door.“I’m afraid to look,” she said.
“I’ll go first,” Gray said in a mock-manly tone. He walked out, peeped in the inside office door, which had a window in it, then came back. “Biggest mouse in the county, maybe in all of America.”
“Good cat.” Sister turned on the washer as Raleigh hurried back into the med room to retrieve his ball before Rooster snatched it.
The five friends walked back up to the house, darkness deep on this cloud-covered early evening. Golly, mouse firmly in jaws, tail hoisted as high as possible, pupils huge, ran ahead of everyone.
“She’s the only cat in the world who has killed a mouse.” Rooster watched the fluffy tail swaying in triumph.
“The trick will be getting her to deposit it outside. She’sgoing to want to bring it in the mudroom and then into the house. She’ll be parading that damned mouse for days.”
“Why doesn’t she just eat it?”Rooster asked.
“Look at her.”Raleigh laughed out loud, which sounded like a healthy snort.
Although Golly usually acquired a bit of a potbelly in winter, this winter she had acquired enough for two. As the dogs giggled, Golly laid her ears flat back, then swept them forward.