Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

As a blank look covered a few faces, Hope said, “Cats are obligate carnivores; they have to eat meat, whereas hounds can live without it so long as they get the correct amount of protein—which, of course, depends on their activity level.”

Mo drained his vodka. “I didn’t come here for a lecture. When does the party start?”

Carl, handsome and well-mannered—unlike Mo—said, “We’re enjoying ourselves. If you don’t like the conversation, find another.”

Secure in his wealth and little else, Mo sneered at the shorter man, without noticing how fit Carl was.

Before he could put his scorn into words, Hope moved toward Mo. “You obviously want to fuss at me, so why don’t we go somewhere where you can? No point in spoiling other people’s evening.”

“Actually, Hope, I don’t have a goddamned thing to say to you.” Mo turned on his heel so fast that he tore up a little clump of grass and nearly knocked down Leslie Matacola, Carl’s wife. He bore down on O.J. and Barry, who viewed him with barely concealed distaste.

Carl, curious, asked, “How do you know Mo Schneider?”

Hope sighed. “Met him on the back stretch of a couple of racetracks. We didn’t hit it off—which is an understatement.”

“Pretty much the story of his life.” Jim Fitzgerald couldn’t help but laugh. “Ever notice how someone can be so smart in one department and woefully deficient in others?”

Hope laughed. “Makes me worry about myself.”

Filled with Irish charm, Jim remarked, “Doctor, I think you’re full up in every department.”

Tootie rejoined Sister. “Hope kept her cool when Mo dissed her. He’s really disgusting.”

“That he is.”

Much of being a master involves social duties. Sister was dog tired and ready to bite, although the Blanton’s had somewhat improved her spirits. Still, she just wanted to go to her room at Shaker Village and go to bed.

Some masters, usually those who hunt hounds or whip in, can’t be very social since their hound duties come first. Sister, being field master, naturally tended to the people. Now that she had a joint master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, they could share social obligations. The club was growing, and Sister had realized two years ago that she just couldn’t go it alone as master. Walter, on call, couldn’t come to this hound show, but he’d arranged his schedule so he could go to the Bryn Mawr Hound Show in Radnor, Pennsylvania, on the first Saturday in June, even though he wouldn’t be taking hounds. Walter would miss the Virginia Hound Show but Sister would be there.

Friends passed and repassed as Sister, poised on the hay bale, indulged in her favorite topic, hounds and hunting. It was everyone else’s main interest, too.

Encouraged by Sister, Tootie introduced herself to Leslie, who took her under her wing, introducing the young beauty to others. Tootie, senses alert, paid careful attention to everyone and everything in hopes of gleaning information.

Grant Fuller, florid, portly, and rich as Croesus, dropped down next to Sister. “Don’t have the stamina I used to have.”

She studied his Buddha belly and smiled. “You’re doing just fine.”

“That’s eating, not partying.” He smiled back. “How you doing?”

“Good. Yourself ?”

“Busy. I shouldn’t complain. Business is booming. Doesn’t leave much time for other pursuits. When I was young, it was wine, women, and song. Now it’s bourbon and steak.”

The crackle of bugs on the scattered bug lights sounded like tiny punctuation marks to their conversation.

“I heard you’ve opened new processing plants.”

This pleased him. “Expanded out of the Mid-America. Just opened a brand-new one in Kansas and am finishing one in southern Ohio. You know, making a great product isn’t the hard part, the hard part is distribution.”

“And?” She enjoyed learning about other people’s businesses. Her late husband had taught her to appreciate a number of interests beyond her own favorite subjects: hounds, horses, and geology.

“Making inroads. In fact, I’m working on Augusta Co-op in your neck of the woods.”

Augusta Co-op and Southern States were the two farm equipment and feed stores in Virginia, and neither one was part of a huge chain.

“Good for you.” She paused. “You’ve worked hard and you hit the market at the right time. People are spending billions on their pets.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I inherited the family business, one large feed store and two grain silos.” He grinned. “Took us four generations to get that far. Yankees delayed our progress.” He winked.

She laughed. “The song of the South. But hey, you could have stayed with that one big old feed store.”

Grant puffed out his chest slightly. “Root, hog, or die.” Then he burst out laughing. “I rooted a lot. But you know, if a person is going to be successful, whether it’s Judge Baker, that pretty young vet”—he nodded in Hope’s direction—“or you, you got to keep up with the times. Once I saw the handwriting on the wall for slaughterhouses, I sold them off and concentrated on dog and cat food.”

“Most slaughterhouses comply with government rules and constant visits for inspection. However, the public perception is one of horror, so you were wise, really,” Sister said.

“People want to eat meat, but they don’t want to know how it gets to the table.” He shrugged. “Ours is a nation where people put their heads in the sand. We should replace the eagle as our national symbol with an ostrich.”

“True enough.”

He lowered his voice. “Sister, I’ll tell you something: chicken, beef, lamb, pork—all loaded. I mean, loaded with hormones. Like I said, I backed out of all that in the mid-nineties.”

“But don’t you still have to deal with the slaughterhouses?”

A thin sheen of sweat shone on his cheeks and forehead in the humid air, despite the coolness of evening coming on. “Might surprise you to know that, yes, I do use chicken byproducts and beef, but the real source of protein is chicken feathers.”

“What?”

“We pick them up from the slaughterhouses by the trailer truckload, grind them, and pulp them. Boy, will that put a shine on a hound’s coat. I’ll toss a couple of bags in your trailer tomorrow. You pull out a hound that needs special care, someone a little light, and just see what happens in two weeks’ time.”

“Why, thank you, Grant. I’d be happy to try. What’s the protein content?”

“I create three levels, based on activity, obviously. Let me give you three bags of the twenty-eight percent and three of the twenty-one. You just try it.” He paused dramatically. “And I’ll make you a promise. If you like the high-tech Hunter’s Friend—the name was my wife’s idea—I’ll sell it to you for less per ton than anyone you do business with, even if I don’t get the distribution deal with Augusta Co-op.”

“That’s very generous.”

He put his hands behind him on the straw bale to lean back a little. “Not so generous. You’re the queen of foxhunting. If you like my product—well, others will, too.”

“You flatter me.”

He shook his head. “No. Anyway, we’re both Dixie brats. You’ve never made a fuss about your status, which is just as it should be. You know what my momma used to say?”

“I’m waiting.”

“People who brag have to.”

She let out a peal of laughter. “Hits the nail on the head.”

“Take Mo Schneider. Can’t believe they haven’t run that braggart windbag out of Arkansas. If there’s a state that should recognize hot air, it’s that one.” He enjoyed her company but knew he had to make the rounds. “Hate to leave you, but I need to do the shake-and-howdy.”