Thimble, the runt of the second “T” litter. This was just too darn exciting. The fox was in that big hole in the corner and she couldn’t leave him.
“I have him. I have him,”
she sang out in her reedy voice, not a desirable booming one.
Outside, Sister laughed, and saw Betty and Sybil laughing, too. The three of them, along with Shaker, worked with the hounds year-round. Sister and Shaker lived with them, the graceful kennels with their brick archways forming a square, had been built on Sister’s farm. This was the first time Thimble had been in on a run that put a fox to ground.
Shaker, with big smile, cajoled little Thimble, “Come on, girlie, girl.”
“No. I did an important thing,”
Thimble sang some more.
Senior hound Cora returned to the shed.
“Thimble, I will bite your tail. Come on. Time to go.”
Thimble sat down right next to the den, hearing the fox squeak.
“Why don’t you move your sorry ass?”
Her ears pricked up. She peered into the den to see two bright eyes peering back at her.
“He’s right,”
said Cora.
“We’ve done our job. Come on, Thimble.”
She trotted out, puzzled, finally asking Cora,
“Are foxes allowed to sass us?”
Cora laughed that dog laugh where they expel air in a short puff.
“All the time. Wait until you meet Aunt Netty. My God, that vixen’s tongue could rust cannon. Come on now, young one. You did well.”
Thimble accompanied Cora back to the pack, patiently waiting, glad for the rest.
“Well done,” Shaker praised his pack.
A sensitive man, Shaker knew his hounds. Far better for Cora to correct the youngster than for him to make a big deal out of it. If he had had to go in and bring her out, he would have. But the hounds live together, establishing their own society. Like nearly all pack animals, there is a clear leader. It’s a peculiarity of humans, who are pack animals, that they so often fail to develop effective leadership. Neither hounds nor horses, who are herd animals, had any such problems.
Shaker easily swung up into Hojo’s saddle, his dexterity a source of envy for many watching him. He walked over to Sister, their two horses touching noses for a moment.
“Didn’t they do splendidly?” Sister glowed.
Also high from the successful chase, Shaker nodded. “Tell you what, Boss, they just get better and better.” Looking fondly at the hounds, he said, “These youngsters are special.”
“Yes, they are.” She pulled her grandfather’s pocket watch out of the watch pocket. “We’ve been out here a little over two hours. Doesn’t seem like it. We’ll have about a half hour walk back. Let’s lift them. The ground’s getting dicey. Let’s get them back in the kennels and rub a little bag balm on those who need it.”
Lifting hounds meant taking them off a line or ending the day’s sport. The hounds literally lift their noses.
“Righto.” Turning, he called the pack to them. They headed west at a leisurely pace.
Sister and Lafayette passed Bobby. “Got everyone?” Sister asked.
“Do. They had a soft landing when they popped off.” He smiled. “What a go!”
“Was.” She smiled back.
They reached the stone fence with the drainage ditch. Sister rode alongside it to find the fence’s lowest point and stepped over it. She gave Lafayette a second, then they jumped again over the ditch. The field had jumped a lot that day, run a lot, no point pushing it. As it was, a few horses didn’t find good purchase on the other side of the ditch, their riders having to stand up and lean forward to help the animal. It’s easy to misjudge a ditch, especially for many riders since so few hunts had ditch jumps in their territory. Jefferson Hunt had only one other one, which was a whistling bitch. People learned.
The horses knew what to do. It was the rider who sometimes miscalculated and looked down. Never a good idea.
Once both fields were on the other side of the ditch, they hung together and entered the heavy woods. The
“I have him. I have him,”
she sang out in her reedy voice, not a desirable booming one.
Outside, Sister laughed, and saw Betty and Sybil laughing, too. The three of them, along with Shaker, worked with the hounds year-round. Sister and Shaker lived with them, the graceful kennels with their brick archways forming a square, had been built on Sister’s farm. This was the first time Thimble had been in on a run that put a fox to ground.
Shaker, with big smile, cajoled little Thimble, “Come on, girlie, girl.”
“No. I did an important thing,”
Thimble sang some more.
Senior hound Cora returned to the shed.
“Thimble, I will bite your tail. Come on. Time to go.”
Thimble sat down right next to the den, hearing the fox squeak.
“Why don’t you move your sorry ass?”
Her ears pricked up. She peered into the den to see two bright eyes peering back at her.
“He’s right,”
said Cora.
“We’ve done our job. Come on, Thimble.”
She trotted out, puzzled, finally asking Cora,
“Are foxes allowed to sass us?”
Cora laughed that dog laugh where they expel air in a short puff.
“All the time. Wait until you meet Aunt Netty. My God, that vixen’s tongue could rust cannon. Come on now, young one. You did well.”
Thimble accompanied Cora back to the pack, patiently waiting, glad for the rest.
“Well done,” Shaker praised his pack.
A sensitive man, Shaker knew his hounds. Far better for Cora to correct the youngster than for him to make a big deal out of it. If he had had to go in and bring her out, he would have. But the hounds live together, establishing their own society. Like nearly all pack animals, there is a clear leader. It’s a peculiarity of humans, who are pack animals, that they so often fail to develop effective leadership. Neither hounds nor horses, who are herd animals, had any such problems.
Shaker easily swung up into Hojo’s saddle, his dexterity a source of envy for many watching him. He walked over to Sister, their two horses touching noses for a moment.
“Didn’t they do splendidly?” Sister glowed.
Also high from the successful chase, Shaker nodded. “Tell you what, Boss, they just get better and better.” Looking fondly at the hounds, he said, “These youngsters are special.”
“Yes, they are.” She pulled her grandfather’s pocket watch out of the watch pocket. “We’ve been out here a little over two hours. Doesn’t seem like it. We’ll have about a half hour walk back. Let’s lift them. The ground’s getting dicey. Let’s get them back in the kennels and rub a little bag balm on those who need it.”
Lifting hounds meant taking them off a line or ending the day’s sport. The hounds literally lift their noses.
“Righto.” Turning, he called the pack to them. They headed west at a leisurely pace.
Sister and Lafayette passed Bobby. “Got everyone?” Sister asked.
“Do. They had a soft landing when they popped off.” He smiled. “What a go!”
“Was.” She smiled back.
They reached the stone fence with the drainage ditch. Sister rode alongside it to find the fence’s lowest point and stepped over it. She gave Lafayette a second, then they jumped again over the ditch. The field had jumped a lot that day, run a lot, no point pushing it. As it was, a few horses didn’t find good purchase on the other side of the ditch, their riders having to stand up and lean forward to help the animal. It’s easy to misjudge a ditch, especially for many riders since so few hunts had ditch jumps in their territory. Jefferson Hunt had only one other one, which was a whistling bitch. People learned.
The horses knew what to do. It was the rider who sometimes miscalculated and looked down. Never a good idea.
Once both fields were on the other side of the ditch, they hung together and entered the heavy woods. The
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