Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“Here.” Fonz thrust hound paperwork, in a smudged envelope, into Sister’s hands.

“We’re literally going to run, because I need to catch up with Mason Lampton.” Barry mentioned the former president of the MFHA, a man bursting with conviviality and fearless on a horse.

As the two men ran across the lawn, Sister watched them just make it to the winding path up past the tents when one monster drop fell. Betty and the girls were already packing up the food and quickly putting it in the back of the Forester. Shaker hopped into the trailer with the JHC hounds. Sister slid in the back to stay with Mo’s hounds. Another splat hit the roof, then another and another. Betty and the girls ducked into the SUV and no sooner had Betty closed the driver’s door than rain fell, beating like thousands of snare drums.

Sister shouted through the divider, trying to make herself heard above the din and the fan. “Good Lord, if this keeps up we’d better build an ark.”

“They okay?” Shaker called.

“Doing quite well for being in a strange trailer with a strange woman in the middle of a terrifying thunderstorm.”

Ten minutes passed but the rain kept coming. If anything, it intensified. Then the wind rose.

Shaker called out again. “I’m soaked.”

“Me, too.”

The trailer had long narrow openings near the roof to facilitate air flow. In winter, Shaker would slide heavy clear plastic panels in to close them up.

“Wish I’d turned off the generator,” he remarked.

“No time.” She shivered. “Temperature’s dropping.”

“I know. The soil up here is really good, but there’s no way those rings can drain fast enough. Hounds will be wading.”

Sister laughed. “We’ll find out who is afraid of water. Actually, it’s hardest on the high desert hounds. They don’t see these conditions, and they’re used to running on sand or rock. Boy, you’ve got to have the nose for that territory.”

“Got to see it one day.”

“We will. The trick is getting the rest of the club to go. A joint meet would be fun with Red Rock in Reno.” She waited a moment. “That assumes we survive this storm.”

A loud crack and pink lightning rocked the trailer. A small gyp jumped on Sister, nearly knocking her down. Since she was already wet and becoming bedraggled, Sister sat down on a ramp as she hugged hounds close to her.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. Pink. That strike was pink!”

“Read somewhere that lightning can hit four miles from the storm. Sky might be clear over your head, but whammo! ”

“Bet it hurts like hell.” Shaker shivered.

“Jeez, is this ever going to let up?”

“Has to eventually. I envy Betty and the girls in the Forester.”

“We’ll get them for this.” He laughed.

“Did you bring extra clothes?” Sister asked.

“A shirt. The kennel coats are in the tack room. At least they’ll be dry. You bring anything extra?”

“Sweater. Damn, I hate this. The pack class, if the show can resume, won’t even go off until after sundown.”

She was right about that, for the storm raged on, bringing tree limbs down.

The Virginia Foxhound Club, sponsor of the Virginia Hound Show, had dealt with many an emergency in the past. Once the storm blew farther east, they rapidly assessed the damage and cleared debris from the rings. Why the electric lines didn’t come down onto the mansion was a miracle. Even so, it took another hour for the show to continue.

The bitches worked ankle deep in water but being foxhounds—which is to say, naturally cheerful and intelligent creatures—they showed to advantage.

Val showed Diana in single bitch entered, and she swept the ring. Shoes wet, Val strode out, beaming.

Sister and Shaker commended her. “Good work.”

Tommy Lee Jones, showing an elegant young bitch, came in second. He came up to Val, Sister, Shaker, and Tootie on the sidelines. “What a wonderful hound. And you did a very good job showing her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” Val blushed.

Tommy Lee then focused on Tootie, holding a pair of G girls to go in for the pairs class. “You ready?”

“I am.”

“I’ll see you in the ring then.” He smiled again.

As he walked away, Val whispered to the little group, “He’s so nice. I beat his hound, and he’s so nice.”

Sister nodded. “Val, that’s one of the best hound men that’s ever been born. He loves a good hound. He’s actually happy that Diana is a great one. Tommy Lee doesn’t have to win. He knows if hounds are fine, we all win.”

“Not everyone is like that.” Shaker’s mouth turned up on one side as Grant Fuller entered the ring with his pair. “Didn’t mean Grant. He’s okay.” Then he laughed. “Selling dog food but, hey, the stuff is good.”

Tootie, now in the ring against Grant, Tommy Lee, and other exceptional huntsmen and handlers, thought she had no chance of getting pinned, but Glitter and Gorgeous, although toeing in the tiniest bit, were marvelously well made. The slope of their shoulders allowed them to reach out fully yet effortlessly. Their hindquarters, powerful but not chunky, added to the fluidity of their movement. They weren’t as broad in the chest as Sister liked, but truly they were glamour girls.

Tommy Lee smiled as he showed his girls.

Grant followed him, huffing a little as he trotted with hounds.

“Good class,” Judge Barry Baker, now up with Sister and Shaker, observed.

“Yep,” came the terse reply from both adults.

As it turned out, Tootie, Glitter, and Gorgeous took third, Grant came in second, and Tommy Lee won the class—or, more specifically, the perfectly matched littermates from Casanova kennels took the blue.

The mercury never did come back up. Sister was glad of her light sweater, but her legs started to ache with the cold.

Twilight graced the rich green grounds. Fireflies emerged to attend the show. Finally, the pack class went off, despite the fact that some of the last entrants would be working in the dark.

All competing packs were to work the same course, now dotted with water. Led by huntsmen and accompanied by whippers-in, the hounds went through on cue. They checked, waited, and then moved on, often working in a figure eight. At one spot, near a huge old holly tree, the pack reversed. Their pace changed, finishing up with a lively run, the humans doing their best to keep up.

Watching a pack class was always the highlight for Sister. She enjoyed seeing if hounds were tuned in to their huntsmen. Then, too, different huntsmen liked whippers-in at different positions. Potomac, so far, had been thrilling. Not a false move on the part of the two-legged or four-legged group.

“Sister, if I work really hard, maybe someday you’ll let Shaker, Betty, and me go in the pack class,” said Tootie.

“We’ll see. Best graduate from Princeton first.” She put one arm around Tootie’s shoulders, then flung her other arm around Val on her left.

Sister loved her girls.

Betty sighed. “If I have to go out there with you, Tootie, I’ll need to run to get in shape.”

“You walk hounds five days a week.” Sister was incredulous.

“If I’m going to show myself on foot before all these people, I want to look like a goddess.” Betty teased.

Val, ever the politician, murmured, “You already are.”

Betty, not one to be sidetracked, giggled. “Which one, Hecuba?”

“Oh, Betty.” Sister dropped her arm from Tootie and Val’s shoulders to reach over and give Betty a pinch.

Judge Barry Baker, standing near the judges for the hound pack, watched the action with rapt gaze.

“One hundred percent attention,” Shaker commented, on Barry and the working pack.