Full Cry by Rita Mae Brown

though the field is behind the hounds— God willing.” They laughed because dumb stuff does happen. “All the excitement is pretty overwhelming for a young hound.”
    â€œOur hounds are high. No doubt about that.” Sybil said this with pride. While a high pack is harder to handle, Sybil believed they showed much better sport, as did everyone else on staff.
    This was not a belief shared by every foxhunter. The four types of foxhound—American, English, Crossbred (a cross between the American and English hound), and the Penn-Marydel hound—reflected different philosophies of hunting, as well as adaptation to different climates and terrain.
    American hounds possessed high drive, sensitive temperaments, and good noses. They were often racy-looking, although the old American bloodlines might have heavy bones.
    Added to the hounds used for mounted hunting were foxhounds for foot hunting or night hunting: Walkers, Triggs, even Redbones and Blueticks could do the job if trained for fox scent. These, too, were wonderful canines, each displaying special characteristics.
    Such a wealth of canines created passionate discussions about which hounds are best for what. Foxhunters and all Southerners learned as children that you can criticize a man’s wife and children before you can say word one about his hounds.
    Although loath to admit it, Sister, too, fell into that slightly fanatical category. She kept her mouth shut about it, but she was devoted, passionate, even rapturous about the American foxhound, especially those carrying the By-waters bloodline. This didn’t mean she wouldn’t listen to other hound people, and she had ridden behind packs of other breeds that would have made any master proud. But she loved the American foxhound with her heart and soul.
    â€œOkay, boss,” Shaker called from the draw yard.
    The hounds, bellies full, retired to their respective runs for sleep or conversation.
    Sister, Betty, and Sybil joined Shaker in the small toasty kennel office. Sister sat on the edge of the desk, Shaker leaned against the refrigerator, Sybil and Betty perched on the old office chairs.
    â€œCoffee?” Shaker offered.
    â€œGod, yes.” Betty rose and poured herself a cup from the eternally percolating pot. She blinked, realized she’d forgotten her manners, and handed the cup to Sybil, who laughed at her.
    â€œOkay, this is what I think. First year in the kennels. We can take all the second-year entry, and I’m still debating about our oldest hounds.” Sister thought a moment, then spoke a bit more rapidly. “Unless there’s a big change in the weather or injury, let’s take Delia, Asa, and the few older citizens. I don’t think we’re going to have a four-hour hunt in the snow on Thursday. I really don’t. And this will be their last High Holy Day; they need to retire after this season.”
    â€œI have dibs on Asa.” Sybil held up her hand.
    â€œAfter cubbing. I’ll need them with me to start our next year’s entry, but he’d be happy to grace your hearth.”
    â€œHe’ll hunt,” Shaker mentioned.
    â€œOh, well, he can hunt to his heart’s content. All the foxes at the farm will hear him coming.”
    They would indeed, for Asa had the voice of a basso profundo.
    â€œDo you want me to come over to the kennels?” Sybil inquired.
    â€œNo. We’re hunting from your farm. Might as well stay there. We’ll meet you at the party wagon.” Sister called the hound trailer—a refitted horse trailer—the party wagon.
    â€œHope it’s a good go.” Sybil’s eyes brightened.
    â€œHope it’s a good year.” Betty laughed.
    â€œIf we’re all together, we’re healthy, the hounds are healthy, it’s going to be a banner year.”
    â€œI’ll drink to that.” Shaker held up his coffee mug.
    The others followed suit, touching one another’s