Рита Браун: Crazy Like A Fox

The outside runs, with lots of shade thanks to old big trees, kept hounds happy. Like horses confined to stalls, hounds would prefer to be outside. Perhaps most people would prefer that, too.

Sister sank into her supportive chair. Damn thing had cost nearly a thousand dollars. She made a steeple out of her fingers and thought. This was the day after the After All hunt, the first time she had had to herself.

The late-afternoon warmth meant all the windows were opened. Raleigh, her Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier, flopped at her feet. Golliwog, the long-haired calico cat, reposed on the desk, thinking herself ornamental.

Sister reached to pet Golliwog who took this as her due. A mighty purr followed.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Sister asked her friends.

“Yes,” Raleigh and Rooster replied in unison.

“Piffle.” Golly felt contrary.

“There are ghosts at Hangman’s Ridge,” Rooster hotly testified.

“Then why go up there?” the calico sensibly questioned.

Raleigh, now on his haunches, eyes level with the cat, put his head on the desktop. “If Sister goes, we go. I hate it up there.”

“If you slobber on this desk, I will smack your nose,” Golly threatened.

“I am terrified.” Raleigh yawned, which made Sister smile.

“Eighteen people were hung up on that ridge. It’s haunted. Crimes and sin.” Golly liked expressing moral observations.

“What if someone was innocent?” Rooster’s sweet eyes focused on Golly.

“Rooster, most people accused of crimes have committed them. Humans make rules which they use to keep other people in line. I suppose some of them are useful, like don’t murder anyone, but then maybe some people just need killing.” The cat pronounced this with vigor.

“Well—?” Raleigh was thinking about it.

“I seem to have provoked a discussion.” Sister laughed at her beloved animals.

Opening the long center drawer, she rifled around for loose hound pedigrees. It was too early to bind this year’s pack together in the annual book so she placed papers where she could easily study them. Sky blue editing pencil in hand, she began to read.

Golly batted the pencil. “Gotcha.”

“Golly.” Sister quietly reprimanded her.

Now the center of attention, the cat grabbed the pencil with both paws.

Raleigh, head still on the table, wisely shut up.

Sister pulled the pencil from the cat’s paws which sent Golly straight up in the air; twisting as she came down, she grabbed the pencil again.

“Why do I put up with you?”

“You don’t know the half of it. She shreds the toilet paper and blames it on us,” Rooster complained.

“Careful. I’ll get you when you’re asleep,” Golly threatened, then clamped her jaws around the blue pencil, yanked it out of Sister’s hand, jumped off the desk, and raced around the room.

“You are impossible.” Sister stood up.

Golly dropped the pencil. “I am fascinating.”

“Oh, spare me,” Raleigh moaned.

Sister bent over, taking the pencil from Golly, who had once again bitten into it and was loathe to give it up. Teeth marks now cut into the barrel. She ran her fingers over the pencil and opened the drawer, dropping it back in.

“That’s a valuable pencil.” Golly leapt back up on the desk and leaned over to paw at the handle for the center drawer.

“If you open that drawer, no catnip,” Sister warned Golly while the two dogs prayed for punishment.

“Bother.” Golly flopped down on the desk.

“I wonder.” Sister walked over and opened the door to the library/record room.

Safe in old glass bookcases, the dark green leather books with gold years printed on the spines testified to the longevity of the hunt. The first book was 1887, the year’s numbers printed in a typeface popular at the time, a typeface still used. Each book contained the pedigree for each hound, photos of each hound, a photo of the pack and the staff. Back then, labor being cheaper, the hunt could afford a professional huntsman, two professional whippers-in, and a kennelman. The huntsman also worked in the kennels. The administrative staff was also listed, the president, the vice president, secretary, and treasurer. They were honorary, unpaid.

Sister pulled out 1953. Opening the book she ran her fingers over the page. The typeface had been cut into the page, producing a clarity no amount of filmed print could match. Flipping through she found a photo of Anthony, an ancestor of Asa. Asa looked a lot like Anthony, which made her think of genetic persistence. Every hound breeder hopes to accentuate those good persistent qualities and minimize the not so good. People, on the other hand, breed indiscriminately; at least, that’s what Sister thought.

A photograph of Weevil, cowhorn to his lips, calling his hounds, caught her attention. She scanned through for more pictures of Weevil, and there were a few. He really was divine-looking.

Then she put 1953 back in the case, pulled out 1954. She noted that Virgil Arnold was the vice president. There was a happy picture of Weevil, his arm around his first whipper-in, a young fellow, Tom Tipton. Snow sparkled behind them. Another photo of Weevil showed him in the kennels, puppies spilling around him.

“So he made it to the end of the season,” she said to herself, shutting the volume and replacing it.

Back at her desk she called Sara Bateman.

Hearing Sister’s voice, Sara teased her. “What do you want?”

“Your good company.”

“Oh, right. Butter me up.”

“No, really, I want your company.”

“Dale and I have been up in Boston with the grandchildren. I’ll be out. Both of our children are giving us grandchildren. I’ve never had so much fun.”

“I can imagine, but you have fun no matter what. Do you think Dale would look at the treasurer’s report for the hunt club from 1947 to 1954?”

“I’m sure he would, but why those years?”

“The huntsman from that time, Wesley Carruthers, disappeared never to be found. He was accused of stealing jewelry from one of his affairs, never proven. One of those spiteful rumors, I suspect, but let’s look at the treasurer’s reports anyway in case thieving attracted him. I’m curious if anything jumps out at Dale, curious numbers, so to speak.”

“I doubt there are receipts kept from that time, but he’ll look.”

“Thank you. I’ll get the reports to you next time you hunt. I have another favor.”

“Boy, you’re working me over.”

“Well, I have to abuse someone.” Sister laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. What is it?”

“Tom Tipton, whom you know, is ninety. I never see him but you tell me he’s spry. Will you bring him to a hunt? I’ll have someone drive him around.”

“He’d love that, but, Sister, what is this about?”

“It’s about Wesley Carruthers. I’ll show you when I see you. Tom whipped-in to him.”

“You know Tom will gallop down Memory Lane. He’ll never shut up.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

CHAPTER 5

The routine of hounds and horses varies somewhat due to latitude. The higher latitudes feel the cold earlier. The southern ones relish warmth longer but sooner or later Boreas, the north wind, blows hard on everyone. As to the light, that seems to affect animals and people even more than the cold.

Tootie, Sister, and Shaker, working in the kennels, were sweating. The clock read eleven A.M. The mercury climbed to the mid 70s.

Tootie power washed the feed room. The light spray soaked her shirt. Felt good. Power washing created such cleanliness. She felt real achievement. It was.