Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Three loud blasts on the horn, notes signaling Come to me, sounded.

As Grant left, Sister wondered if Giorgio had heard Shaker blowing those notes when the hounds picked up scent. Sensitive, young, the beautiful boy would be so upset by not being able to reach Shaker. She wanted to cry because she knew how confused Giorgio must be. She prayed he wasn’t chained. Chaining a dog infuriated her.

The horn-blowing contest, now starting, delighted everyone as the huntsmen, directed by the judges, began to perform various hound calls.

Sister noticed Mo, horn in his back pocket, back at the bar for another vodka. He ambled toward the lineup of men holding their horns; no lady huntsman was there to compete, although there are many these days.

Then Fonz brushed by his boss, jostled by another fellow, and Mo threw his vodka in Fonz’s weather-beaten face.

Startled, Fonz stepped backward. Sister watched as the short, lean man carefully wiped the vodka off his face without tasting any of it. She thought it a cruel thing for Mo Schneider to do, throwing liquor at an ex-drunk, but she expected no better from him.

Later, that image of Fonz trying not to lick his lips would come back to her.

CHAPTER 3

Two rectangular rings set off with roped cordons marked the areas where the foxhounds, beagles, and bassets would be judged. Woodford had considered three rings but decided that if they ran the show like clockwork they could keep it intimate.

Quite a few fabulous hunts had driven to Harrodsburg, Kentucky, to be part of the show: Keswick, Longreen, and Beechgrove from Tennessee; Mooreland from Alabama; Midland from outside Columbus, Georgia; Why Worry Hounds from South Carolina; London Hunt from Ontario, Canada; Iroquois from nearby Lexington; Mission Valley and Coal Valley, both from Kansas; and Rosetree from York, Pennsylvania, all brought hounds.

O.J. checked her program, then her watch. One of her joint masters, Robbie Lyons, had been rushed to the hospital a scant two weeks ago for heart surgery, so he could only look on; the other master, Sam Adams, was working twice as hard to cover for him. As Woodford Hounds, founded in 1981, abounded with hardworking helpful people, the two healthy masters pulled it off—up to the start of the show, at least.

They’d wisely put the rings under the old trees. Across the narrow farm road on the house side they’d thrown up a large tent where food would be served later. The layout utilized the best features of the site and kept the action close together. Occasionally at hound shows the different rings are set so far apart that a spectator will have to huff and puff, running to catch the action.

Masters, huntsmen, and onlookers eagerly awaited the start of the first class: Single Dog Unentered ( dog hound means a male hound). Part of the excitement involved the judges. Chris Ryan, MFH, huntsman of the famous Scarteen pack in Ireland, had been flown over. He would be scrutinizing the English and Crossbred hounds. Tommy Lee Jones, huntsman of Casanova Hunt, the idol of many a young and not-so-young huntsman, would judge the American and Penn-Marydel hounds. Stanley D. Petter, Jr., would judge beagles and bassets. His grasp of conformation was so refined he was often consulted by devotees of the sport.

Woodford Hounds certainly assembled extraordinary judges, which naturally brought in the top competitors. People want their hounds to be seen by the best eyes. Just watching how a class is pinned is instructive. No one likes to be dismissed early from a class, but if one can take it in stride, there’s much to gain from the experience.

Hope stopped by the trailer. “Good luck, you-all. I’ve got to head back, but give me a full report when you get home.”

Sister thanked her, wishing her a safe trip. From Shaker Village to Hope’s clinic was a seven-and-a-half-hour drive.

Sister handed Grady, an unentered dog hound, Giorgio’s littermate,to Tootie. He had his mother’s gorgeous head and powerful shoulders. His front legs from the knee downward turned in slightly, a conformation flaw. Small though it was, in this type of competition it would probably keep him from the ribbons. This fall would be his first season, and Sister, Shaker, and their whippers-in had high hopes for the G litter. Hounds are typically named according to the first letter of their mother’s name. Giorgio was out of a gyp named Greta, drafted from Middleburg, and she’d been bred to Dasher, a solid hound full of good old Virginia blood, which is to say, Bywaters. The other great Virginia bloodline, Skinker, filled the kennels of Orange County Hunt, Casanova, and others.

Many of the spectators knew at least a bit of this, but their main focus was on the present crop of hounds and judges. The ladies particularly liked watching the judges. Tommy Lee Jones, silver-haired, kind, and good-natured, could turn a girl’s head. Chris Ryan, wiry, rugged, bursting with energy and with that charm only the Irish possess, also dazzled. Stanley Petter, turnout crisp, treated ladies with respect, so he, too, was always in demand. In fact, some women never got around to looking at the hounds.

Each ring had a steward, a person responsible for unfastening the cordon so hounds and handlers could enter and exit. The steward, ascertaining the judges’ results, would deliver them to the official ringside if that was necessary. A good steward is critical to a well-run hound show, for if a problem does occur in the ring—say, a dogfight—it is the steward’s responsibility to attend to it, not the judges. As a judge, Barry Baker had the quiet authority and experience necessary for a good steward. Today he would need it.

Tootie, in a white kennel coat starched to perfection, a black hunt cap, ribbons up since she wasn’t staff, made both Sister and Shaker grin. Apart from appreciating proper turnout, they both loved getting young people involved with hounds.

O.J., joining Sister Jane, remarked, “I’m so glad to see you’re letting a junior handle the hound.”

“She could go in the junior class but she’s good, O.J., and I don’t see any reason for her not to go up against the adults. We know”—Sister Jane nodded toward Shaker on her other side—“that Grady toes in. He’s not going to get pinned. You find that toe-in a lot with the old Bywaters blood.”

“It was the fashion in the late forties and fifties,” O.J. commented. “ ’Course we weren’t on the ground there,” she joked.

“They thought it would give the hound better purchase; I doubt if they were right,” Sister replied. “Maybe you weren’t on the ground then, but you know I was. Glad of it, too. More country people. People in general were more realistic.”

Keswick Hunt had three hounds in the class, shown by the huntsman, Tony Gammell, and his wife, Whitney. Claudia Lynn, wife of Andy Lynn, one of the Keswick masters, showed the third hound. Charlotte Tieken, the other Keswick master, was chained to her desk, working. No show for her this time.

Far from being pushy or crassly competitive, all three Keswick people beamed at Tootie when she came into the ring. “You look the very part,” Tony said, his lovely Irish lilt lightening Tootie’s stride.

Longreen Foxhounds near Germantown, Tennessee, the other hunt with hounds in the ring, were also cordial to Jefferson Hunt, though the camaraderie didn’t come close to Jefferson’s relationship with Keswick, another Tennessee hunt. Everyone liked seeing a young person in the ring.

Tommy Lee asked them to walk around, then reverse. He studied each hound. Chris Ryan, the Irish judge, though not judging the American hounds, keenly watched the proceedings, as did the two hundred spectators.

Tootie lost her nervousness, partly because Grady, ham that he was, loved being the center of attention. Sister was right. Grady received no ribbon because of his toeing in. While not pronounced, it was at variance with the clean, straight limbs of Keswick Kiely, who took first, followed by his littermate, Kaiser, who snagged the red ribbon.