Рита Браун: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Diana, an outstanding hound in her prime, walked over, checked it out. “Pook, that’s a bobcat. You know that’s a bobcat. Why waste your time?”

“Well, if we can’t pick up the fox again this could be fun. I want to have fun.”

“Shut up. Forget it and go to work.” Cora growled convincingly.

Pookah immediately did as she was told. You didn’t cross Cora.

Most members of the field want to gallop along. The more they gallop, the better they think the hunting. Granted, moving along at pace is always a thrill, but for Sister, staff, and those foxhunters who loved hounds, they marveled at the work below. This pack performed beautifully.

Dreamboat was one of the D line, for foxhounds take the first initial of their name from their mother’s name. He stopped, sniffed, sniffed more, his tail started to flip like a windshield wiper. Now Dreamboat was not a particularly brilliant hound. He was the good foot-soldier type. He had always been overshadowed by his littermates, Diana, Dragon, and Dasher. He did his job, was always in the middle of the pack but today was his day.

“Here he is!” he sang out in his resonant voice.

As Dreamboat was a reliable fellow none of the lead hounds bothered to check the line. Within seconds, Dreamboat up front, the pack spoke in unison.

Shaker, on Hojo, the perfect huntsman’s horse, bold, fast, and handy, fell in behind the pack. Way out on the right of the pack rode Betty Franklin, whipping in. On the left, just now dipping down into a swale, rode Sybil Fawkes, also whipping in.

Sister waited for a moment before trotting down the hill, riding behind Shaker by about thirty yards. Just behind her rode Maria and Nate Johnson, owners of Oakside. Out of the corners of their eyes they caught sight of their daughter, Sonia, behind Sybil by about a football field in length, riding tail. Sister wanted to train young people for staff positions and as Sonia was in her early twenties and could ride, this was working out.

The Johnsons rode up to direct Sister, who did not yet know the territory that well. Good thing, too, because the fox crossed a shallow creek, headed into a woods, and burst out again. Of course he didn’t run in a straight line, so everyone looped in the woods a bit. When they emerged, an old fence line dividing the Johnsons’ property from their neighbors’ appeared and so did the fox. The crafty fellow paused for one moment, looked back at the approaching hounds, then scooted under the fence and put on the afterburners to create havoc.

Knowing that the neighboring farm wasn’t available for hunting, Shaker had to halt his pack. Taking hounds off a hotline is miserable work because, in a sense, you are punishing them for doing their job. Hounds have little sense of human boundaries and if they did, they wouldn’t care.

To make matters worse, the entire field could view this beautiful red while watching the whippers-in jump the three-board fence to bring back the hounds.

Shaker pulled up to blow them in. Had he gone on, the hounds would have taken that as a signal they could continue. If the huntsman was right behind them, they were right. Like any huntsman, Shaker, frustrated, blew his horn three long notes in succession, and prayed his whippers-in could do their job. Not an easy one.

Betty rode right up on the pack’s shoulder, looking down at Thimble and Twist. “Leave it.”

“It’s red-hot!” Thimble protested.

On a blindingly fast Thoroughbred, Sybil called out the same order on the left side where Giorgio, a hound of stunning beauty, obeyed.

Sonia, without being told, rode past Sybil, got in front of the pack, slightly turned toward them and cracked her whip. That sounded like rifle fire and scared the hounds. They slowed down.

Then Betty and Sybil, who had worked with the pack for decades, knew everyone and vice versa, called again. “Leave it!”

Diana stopped so the others did, too, as Diana and Cora had the respect of all the hounds. Hounds, like humans, are pack animals. Some have natural authority and often they build on this, earning trust by their work.

“Not fair! Not fair!” Trident howled.

“How could they do this to us?” Dasher cried.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Betty praised them, which offered some salve.

“Come on. Come along,” Sybil pleasantly ordered, turning her horse back toward the fence.

“Why do they do this? Why?” Trident, who had been right behind Dreamboat, spoke in misery.

“Humans are perverse,” Trooper replied.

“True, but you have to admit, they rarely break us off a line,” Cora counseled.

Back at the fence, the hounds wiggled back under it while Betty, not under pressure, looked for a place with a top board off to jump. Yes, she could and just did jump a three-board fence, but it wasn’t her preference. She rode Outlaw, her tough Quarter Horse, who had that odd little engine push when he jumped.

Thoroughbreds’ jumps were usually smooth, often seemingly effortless; they spoiled their riders. Quarter Horses could jump without a doubt, but they always felt—to Betty, at least—as if there was a little extra wiggle there in the rear.

Sybil didn’t think anything about the fence being three boards. She leapt back over, as did Sonia.

The hounds gathered around Shaker, who lavishly praised them.

The medium-built, muscular huntsman leaned over, citing Dreamboat directly for all to hear; hounds, horses, and humans.

“Dreamboat, you were a star.”

“Me?” The good fellow gazed up, then realized “Me!”

Dreamboat stood on his hind legs as Shaker leaned over, reaching down, and took the offered paw.

The happy hound rejoined the pack. Shaker paused for a moment, looking to his master.

Sister asked Maria, “If we follow the creek south then turn back toward your farm, think we’ll be okay?”

“Sure.”

“If we find another fox that runs out of the fixture, we’ll just deal with it,” the elegant Master said.

A narrow path followed the creek. Resuming the search, hounds headed south, a few floated into the woods.

As Sister rode along, she memorized suitable crossings on the new fixture’s creek. As the waters were clear she could see the bottom, a big help. Nothing like getting into water only to sink in nasty silt.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Betty, on the other side of the water, picked her way through, as there wasn’t a path on that side. The problem was always those tendrils hanging from trees, Virginia creepers, and little bushes with loathsome thorns. It was a good horse that willingly plunged into the stuff, which Outlaw did. Not that he didn’t complain about it.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. The temperature, midforties, felt warm, especially if one had put on extra layers, since it was below freezing at ten o’clock when hounds were first cast.

Thirty minutes.

“Hey, gray,” Dreamboat called out, having picked up a scent. “Fading,” he cautioned.

He moved along a bit faster, hooked into the woods on the path side, then opened in earnest, his resonant hound baritone sounding beautiful.

Another run, maybe ten minutes followed, but it seemed longer as there were many obstacles to dodge. Finally the scent pooped out.

By now it was twelve-thirty. Two and a half hours seemed sufficient, given conditions and the newness of the fixture. Sister didn’t want to risk heading into forbidden territory should they get another line.

So many times a decision a Master must make isn’t good for hunting but necessary for landowner relations. She hoped, in time, the neighbor would learn that the club did no harm and was happy to do some good if you needed a gate fixed or perhaps useful information. She would call upon the neighboring farm after this first season down here and hope for the best.