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 firstyear 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 Shakerput in too many of the T litter, they’ll be toast. Thoseyoung’uns haven’t settled yet.”
On hearing this, Trident couldn’t help but protest.“We’vedone really, really good.”
“Oh? I recall during cubbing that you wanted to track askunk.”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.