“Don’t. I appreciate your concern, but the more people who know, the more chances for our fox to pick up the tension. Shaker, Betty, and Sybil are out there as staff. Gray will be in the field.”
“I understand.” She breathed in. “Saturday’s fixture is Paradise.”
“Funny, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 29
Seven river otters played early Saturday morning on the feast of St. Agnes, January 21. Their philosophy of life contrasted sharply with that of the virgin martyr of Rome, dying in 305 AD. She refused marriage, for at thirteen she had consecrated her body to Christ. Her reward for such a gift was a sword straight through the throat. Like a lamb, agnus in Latin, pretty Agnes met her Maker.
The otters felt life should be frolic with a bit of sex in early spring. Mating, delightful as it could be, paled before running hard, flopping on one’s belly before reaching water’s edge, then sliding down at top speed to crash into the swift current, riding the little waves.
Bruce, the largest of the otters at thirty pounds, father of the brood, hit the cold water with a boom, sending two waves up at his sides. He bobbled along for fifty yards before swimming and scrambling out at an easy place.
“Whee!” One otter after another squealed as he or she roared toward the large creek’s edge then down the steep, slick slide they’d made.
Out they scrambled, each one hurrying to reach the starting place only to barrel down, hit the side of the bank, and fold forelegs next to the body. Down they’d go, furry toboggans loving every minute of life.
Crayfish, rockfish, all manner of delicious edibles swam in the deep, wide creek. Then, too, a berry now and then aided the digestion. The family, in splendid condition, had little competition for the food they prized.
Earl, a gray fox in his second year, sat on a log, the orange half moons of fungus protruding from the snow, more light snow still falling.
Trite though the phrase may be, it was a winter wonderland. As everyone sported thick fur coats with dense undercoats, the temperature was bracing.
Also watching the nonstop otter celebration were Athena and Bitsy, sitting high in a majestic spruce. Flying from Sister’s took them twenty minutes. For humans, hauling horses and dealing with roads that weren’t straight, the time from Roughneck Farm took forty minutes.
“Come on,” Bruce invited Earl.
“No, thanks. I only swim when I must,” the handsome fellow replied.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lisa, the mother, revving her motors, called out.
“Do you think they’re simpleminded?” Bitsy asked Athena.
“No, just silly.”
“You’d think they didn’t have to work for a living,” Bitsy, fond of stirring the pot, remarked.
“They don’t. This place is one big supermarket for them.” Athena opened and closed her beak with a clicking sound.
Squirrels in the tree scurried along the boughs, snow falling off as they ran. They were not overly fond of Athena, who could kill and eat them if she wanted to. But they knew she was full, since she’d given everyone within earshot her menu. They leaped to the oak where they lived.
“Flying rats,” Bitsy giggled.
“Come on!” Bruce called Earl again.
“Nah, I need to save my energy.”
“You looking for a girlfriend?” Bruce thought keeping a mate the better course.
He thought a minute. “If I find the right vixen I have to help with food. I guess I can do it. I’m finally ready.”
“And a healthy young fellow you are,” Bruce complimented him, turned a flip, and reached the runway, speeding to zoom over the side.
Athena, eyes half closed, opened them wide. Swiveling her head, she listened closely. Bitsy, her ear tufts at full attention, mimicked the big owl.
“Trotting,” Bitsy said.
“Short stride, but hooves, yes, hooves. Every now and then you’ll hear the hooves hit a stone. The wind blows some places clean.”
“Deer.” Bitsy fluffed.
“No. Different cadence.” Athena thought hard, then said, “Haven’t heard that in many a year.”
“What is it?”
“A wild boar. A big one,” Athena replied.
“I thought wild pigs traveled in herds,” Bitsy commented. “Not that I’ve run into any, mind you.”
“Sow and her young, they do. They join up with other sows; but no, this is one boar alone. It’s mating season. Actually, it’s mating season for just about everyone. I heard you threatened to lay an egg or two at the end of the month.”
“It’s so much trouble. Laying the eggs isn’t so bad, it’s feeding them.” Bitsy, having never been a mother, thought it might be an enchanting experience and then again, it might not. She had bragged to Target and Inky that she intended to lay two eggs. She wished she’d kept her beak shut.
Athena chortled, a raspy sound. “True, so true.” Her deep voice filling the snow-covered woods, she informed the animals below, “There’s a boar heading this way at a fast trot. One boar, so I expect it’s a male.”
“He’s not going to eat us.” A saucy little otter raced for the slide.
“Root, hog, or die,” Earl remarked. “Guess it’s hard to root in the snow.”
“He can smell what’s underground, snow or no snow. He likes potatoes, turnips, and acorns.” Athena respected wild pigs, finding them highly intelligent—not in her class, but intelligent.
Way in the distance, two miles away, the piercing note of Shaker’s horn sounded “Gone away.”
Athena swiveled her head again, eyes black and full. “Foxhunters.”
“You mean they’ll shoot me?” Earl asked, horrified.
“No, you silly twit. They’ll chase you with hounds, American foxhounds to be exact. Very logical animals, but you’re far more clever. Run about, use water, foil your scent. If hounds get close, zigzag. And above all, don’t run into deep snow,” Athena counseled.
“In fact, you can crisscross this otter scent should hounds come this way. They’re on a fox now.” Bitsy loved the chase.
“How come I don’t know about this?” the young gray asked, troubled.
“Haven’t used this fixture for years. Problems with the DuCharme brothers. Foxhunters were here two weeks ago, but way on the other side of Paradise. You haven’t been prepared by cubbing. That’s when the humans in charge train the young hounds and young foxes, too. But if you do as I say, you should be fine. Duck into a den, any den, when you’ve had enough. Oh, hounds will dig and sing and curse you, but they can’t do squat. The huntsman will dismount and blow a funny, wiggly sound, and then they’ll leave. It’s harmless, really,” Athena reported.
Bitsy, eager to dispense information, told the gray fox, “There’s a tall, slender lady who rides up front. She leads the humans. Silver hair, even more silver than yours, and if you make friends with her, she’ll feed you.”