Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Tommy Jones placed his hand on Tootie’s shoulder as she waited to go out of the ring. “You’re doing a good job, and that’s a lovely hound. Just toes in a tad.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” She smiled broadly because she hadn’t thought so august a huntsman would even notice her.

Of course he would. He didn’t think he was august, which was part of his appeal.

The morning turned sultry. Still, the classes ran like clockwork. People shifted between the foxhound ring and the beagle and basset ring, depending on who was showing and being shown.

Too tie and Shaker showed hounds in the couples classes, which Tootie loved. Couples classes almost always had hounds who were closely matched littermates. Watching the pairs move together on and off lead was a special treat.

Sister went in the ring for Class 5, showing Dragon and Dasher, racy tricolor American hounds. The boys were on. They snared a second, which pleased both hounds and humans.

Mo Schneider hadn’t received one ribbon for his hounds. He showed them with his whipper-in, Fonz Riley. The two men wore kennel coats and derbies, the proper headgear for showing English hounds. Mo had English, Crossbred, American, and Penn-Marydel, thinking to cover all the bases. Didn’t work. Fonz handled the hounds much better than the master, but Mo’s ego was in a gaseous state, ever expanding. The humidity and the lack of ribbons began to tell on him. Judge Baker, wearing a tan sport coat and tie in the ring as steward, clearly felt the humidity, as did everyone else. Those starched kennel coats felt like sweat suits. That’s hound shows. No point in bitching and moaning.

The lunch break arrived in the nick of time. Ice-cold drinks helped restore bodies and spirits. Mary Pierson, a Woodford member, guided folks toward the tent. The food, perfect for a now-sweltering day, also helped.

Grant Fuller, already tired from walking back and forth from trailer to ring, headed toward the drinks.

Mo Schneider pushed his way toward O.J. to sit next to her. Given that he wasn’t invited, she bore him with good grace. O.J.’s table had been organized before with the idea of giving the judges a respite.

Sister Jane just winked at O.J. when Mo took her place. She repaired to the next table to sit with Shaker and Tootie where the diminutive Woodford member Louise Kelly, black-eyed, black-haired, entertained everyone with her stories.

“You don’t know one end of a hound from another.” Mo’s voice rose as he berated Chris Ryan.

Face reddening, Chris simply replied, “There’s always another day for your hound.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mo screeched, now pointing his finger at Tommy Lee. “It’s the old boys’ club. Always is.”

O.J. spoke sternly. “Mo, this has been a wonderful show, and more is to come. Don’t spoil it.”

“You shut up. You’re part of the old boys’ club, too.”

This frosted Sister Jane, who had ample reason to loathe Mo. She stood up. “Mo, you quite forget yourself.”

His retort was, “I’d rather forget you.”

She doubled her fist, moving toward him. Shaker knocked over his chair getting up to restrain his master. Sister rarely lost her temper but when she did, watch out.

Tommy Lee Jones, Judge Baker at table three, and Tony Gammell all stood. From behind Mo came Carl Matacola. All the men were strong, with Tommy Lee being the most formidable.

Judge Baker caused Mo to turn from Sister. “We don’t speak to ladies this way. You’re excused.”

“I’m what?” His eyes bugged out of his head.

“Get out.” Judge Baker simplified his request.

“Best you go,” Tony reiterated. “You’ve insulted two masters, two lovely ladies.”

Whitney, Tony’s wife, looked on, proud of her husband’s demeanor but worried that he would take a shot at the now frothing Mo. It wouldn’t do for Tony to break his hand, with so much work to be done this summer.

James Keogh, a strapping six-foot-four-inch Irishman and Woodford whipper-in, who’d been outside the tent, hurried in, ready to help drag Mo out. He wanted to make sure that Robbie Lyons didn’t try to do it because his chest was still full of stitches from the heart surgery.

Mo took a swing at Judge Baker, who ducked.

Carl grabbed the swinging arm as Tommy Lee grabbed the other one. The two men pushed Mo’s arms up against his back, which was painful, and then they literally picked him up and threw him out of the tent.

Shaker let loose of Sister Jane. “Boss, I know you’ve got a mean right cross, but you stay here.”

Mo charged back into the tent. Carl stopped him, bending low and hitting him with a solid block below the knees. As Mo crumpled, Shaker grabbed hold of his coat collar and began dragging him back toward the trailers, the other men following as Mo flailed and cursed with abandon.

The ladies watched, quite impressed.

“Testosterone poisoning,” Louise said laconically.

“Actually, I suspect he’s deficient,” Sister Jane added, which made everyone laugh louder.

Back at the trailers, the men surrounded Mo. Outnumbered and realizing vaguely he shouldn’t have crossed a former Virginia supreme court justice while he was showing hounds, he calmed down. Crossing two of the most respected men in foxhunting, Tommy Lee Jones and Chris Ryan, evidenced galloping stupidity, too.

When the men left him, Fonz started loading up the trailer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mo shouted at him.

“We’re going home, aren’t we?”

“No, we goddam well are not. I came to show my hounds, and I will.”

He did, too, actually winning a ribbon for single bitch entered.

Sister Jane thought Mo’s hound rather nice. She also fell in love with Keswick Tally and Keswick Rustic as well as a lovely Crossbred, Why Worry Fairy.

Jefferson Hunt gathered four more ribbons and ended the day hot, tired, but happy, although plagued with worry over Giorgio.

Judge Baker walked back, his coat now off, his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Accompanying him was Jim Fitzgerald, the two in animated conversation.

Sister liked him. “Jim, I never got a chance to catch up with you.”

“That kind of day. Didn’t lack for drama.”

Judge Baker shrugged. “I couldn’t believe that Mo would still show his hounds. I had a mind to turn him away, but when I asked Chris Ryan he winked at me so I let the bastard in.”

“Thoroughly disagreeable man.” Jim nodded. “I was bringing up more ice from the trucks so I missed most of the championship fight.”

“It’s a foolish man who goes up against Tommy Lee Jones.” Shaker laughed. “Foolish man to cross Sister, too.”

Jim Fitzgerald spoke to Tootie, who was standing quietly next to Sister Jane. “Young lady, you’ve a gift with hounds.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Where do you get these juniors?” Jim asked Sister.

“I’m on the board of Custis Hall. I recruit them. I have quite a few who hunt with me and four seniors who are outstanding. Tootie is one. The other three are back in Virginia madly finishing up term papers.”

“Come back to Sister when you’ve finished college,” Jim advised her.

“I’ve finished college.” Judge Baker looked at Sister. “I could come, too.”

“Any time, you handsome devil.” Sister and her late husband had known Barry and his recently deceased wife for close to forty years.

“You’ll see more of me come hunt season. You know, Mitch and Lutrell Fisher bought Skidby. Has a lovely dependency and I’ve rented it, so I’ll hunt one day a week with Deep Run and one with you. Hunt every day if I could.” Judge Baker meant it.

Skidby, a large landholding on the western edge of Sister Jane’s hunt territory, was famous locally for its caverns. Immediately after the War Between the States, when the Yankees rode through, Confederate officers hid in the caves. No one knew if they’d be shot or imprisoned.