Рита Браун: Animal Magnetism

For instance, a well-mannered person says “Excuse me” or “Pardon me” if someone blocks their path. A dog bumps another dog and, given the hierarchical nature of canines, the younger or lesser dog moves. Young and small, I had to gain the respect of the hounds. If a hound didn’t move out of my way, I bumped him.

When a hound or house dog brought me a toy and I asked the animal to release it, if he didn’t, I’d chastise him. Asking for the toy is a signal to play. Sometimes I pretended I wanted that slobbery toy and I would chase the dog. Then I’d stop, turn my back, and walk away. The dog would follow, toy in mouth. This would go on until one of us pooped out, and it always made the dog so happy.

Spontaneous play draws the participants closer together. This is one of the things humans lose as they get older. Given all the responsibilities people acquire in life, it’s difficult to be spontaneous. Dogs, cats, and horses don’t punch a time clock. They don’t need to turn in reports or expense accounts. Every now and then it’s good to walk away from whatever burdens you, pick up a ball, and throw it for the dog.

Tone of voice matters. If a dog speaks low to another dog—not a growl, just a low tone—all is usually well. If the pitch rises, it means excitement. The danger bark is distinctive and doesn’t sound like either of the above. People often raise their voices when talking to their dogs or children. The dog gets fired up, jumps up or runs around, and the person then tells the dog to stop. But the person started it. It’s not the dog’s fault.

Each species has its own sophisticated communication system. Animals learn ours but we rarely learn theirs, and then we punish them for not understanding, or we call them stupid.

There’s no such thing as a dumb dog, but God knows there are continents filled with dumb humans.

Sometimes I am one of those dumb humans, so I know whereof I speak. I learned how hounds work in a pack and saw that humans do, too. Hounds’ expansive ability to love carried me through many a crisis, including PopPop’s death. The hounds knew he was dying and I learned very early to trust their diagnosis. If you know what to look for, you, too, can see.

My hounds knew before I did when my best friend, Dr. Herbert Jones, the sustaining love of my life, was failing. When he died—my Gibraltar shattered, sinking into an ocean of grief—I went to my hounds and slept beside them, right in the kennel. It gave me strength to face the next day.

On my farm, if a hound passes its prime, he or she stays on. They’ve shown me that retirement isn’t a good thing for hounds and is probably worse for people. So I find jobs for them.

All throughout my life, I’ve observed, tried to be flexible, tried to learn new languages. My first horse, not really mine but a draft horse, a big gray Percheron, taught me to think like a prey animal. Being a medium-sized predator, I found this difficult. Suzie Q, the horse, was better at understanding me than I was at understanding her.

Franklin, Mother Brown’s parrot, possessed a wicked sense of humor. Bird intelligence can be frightening when they cock their heads and glare at you with those glittering eyes. The pterodactyl is never far behind. Franklin, who liked me, would set up a ruckus in his cage so Mamaw would let him out and we’d go around together. Mickey was not allowed to visit her. Just as well, or Franklin would have spoken his last line. What a chatterbox he was.

While trying to understand Franklin’s mind I studied him when he was watching other birds. Those brains are small but filled with dense wiring. I still do not know how they communicate in flocks. Oh, sure, I know Canada geese honk, but there’s more to it than that. Usually, I do know what they’re saying in general: the call note which is a kind of “howdy do,” the true song sometimes sung in duet but so seamlessly that people assume it is one bird, the “git out” curse and the true fear note which can cut through steel. It seems birds and other animals can predict the weather. Understanding the fear note and watching birds and other creatures take to high ground helped me to get my stock to high ground when a hurricane swept through after the weatherman predicted it would not go inland.

I owe talkative Franklin a lot. Thanks to Franklin, I have a strong suspicion that humans, freed from technology and again utilizing our senses, could communicate in flocks and without much fuss. We could also send messages across the oceans without ever picking up a phone or touching a computer.

Humans can do this. The natives of Australia can send messages to one another wherever they are in the world. But we can, too. Haven’t you ever felt a strong compulsion to call someone? You do and the individual says, “I was just thinking about you.” Or they are in distress and your call comes at a crucial time. Whether we can reclaim this faded ability and exercise it at will, I don’t know. It may even be possible for different species to do this. You may be able to pick up something from your dog. I don’t know, but it seems possible. Whenever there is deep emotion, there’s a connection.

This book is about the sweep and sweepings of a life lived close to nature and lived with deep respect and sometimes fear of earth’s other residents. I’ve looked a bobcat in the eye and recognized my better. I’ve come up on a bear and felt gratitude that he decided to run. I’ve paid my last respects to beloved hounds, horses, and cats with both sorrow and joy, and felt profoundly grateful that I could ease their passage into the beyond, something I couldn’t do for my own mother.

Given that this involves my family and my human friends, there are sexual peccadilloes, gambling problems, drinking problems (not mine, I can be stupid all by myself, I don’t need help), catnip addictions. There’s thievery, which is practiced as much by the dogs as the cats, plus a few folks are doing it, too, and foxes: lots of foxes, most especially Sardine, who, as you might suspect, likes sardines. She likes my chickens, too.

There is a criminal chicken. Shocking, but you’ll see we aren’t the only creatures who can be hateful.

There’s a Catholic fox who lives near an Episcopalian fox, with interactions that remind me of my own family, for I have heard heated exchanges of a less than charitable nature. If there aren’t foxes in heaven I don’t want to go. Of course, I may not be going anyway. I’m a bad Christian, but I’m too old to be a good anything else.

Bad Christian or not, much of what I am is a result of a life with and close to animals. I hope this book does them justice, for they have done right by me.

Me at five, holding Skippy (there were a lot of Skippys!). Photo by Julia Buckingham Brown .

Money Isn’t Everything—Love Is

F rom the time I could put two thoughts together, I knew that I wanted a foxhound of my very own. My grandfather (Pop-Pop) and great-uncle Bob Harmon had kept American foxhounds for years and I was crazy about them. But my dad, granddad, and great-uncle thought that at six, I was too young to handle American foxhounds. They are tremendously sensitive and possess phenomenal drive. So they decided on a Chesapeake Bay Retriever for my first puppy, my first training experience. Turned out to be a wise choice, for they are easy dogs.

Chaps, along with PopPop’s hounds, taught me how to communicate with dogs. More importantly, he taught me about love. He also had a great sense of humor. He’d steal my baseball glove, he’d bring me what were to him treats (a deer leg), plus if a puddle of water presented itself, he’d dive in. He always wanted me in the puddle, creek, or river with him.

I learned not to doubt Chaps. His senses, keener than mine, proved an early warning system. He’d lift his head, open his nostril, and gather information. Or, like the foxhounds, he’d put his nose to ground.