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.”