Animal Magnetism

by Rita Mae Brown

  Chaps could smell emotional states. We give off scent but our olfactory organ is poor, so we can detect stinky sweat, the sweat of fear, or the opposite, cleanliness, or fragrant flowers, but not much more. Consider that a foxhound has about one hundred million scent receptors. You and I bump along with ten million. We can’t imagine the texture, the medley of odors that an ordinary canine can process, understand, act upon. They even have the ability to process how long ago scent was laid. It’s a dazzling gift the gods have given them.

  They have another great gift: the ability to love. Chaps loved me, even when I was distant and just walking down a dirt road, oblivious to his overtures. He loved me when I was mean, which wasn’t often. He didn’t require that I be beautiful (good thing), smart, witty, or a fascinating conversationalist. He loved me and I loved him.

  I taught Chaps to retrieve using duck wings. PopPop brought me a duck wing that one of his duck hunting buddies gave him, since he knew I wanted one. He tied it to a fishing line and gave me his old fly rod. I’d cast the wing, then reel it in. Soon, for he was a smart fellow, Chaps would run after the wing if I cast it. I had to put a little sinker on it because the wing was so light it just fluttered. With the sinker I could send it out there. When Chaps dropped the wing at my feet or let me take it from his mouth, I’d give him a little treat. Mother cooked up meat treats, then dried them. Now these things are available commercially.

  This is not to say I can train gun dogs, but I could probably learn. Chaps showed me the basics. Dad said I could sell him for seventy-five dollars, which was a lot of money. PopPop Harmon praised me. I’m not sure I did all that much, since retrieving was bred into Chaps, but I lapped up the praise. I didn’t want the money. I cried. I begged Dad to let me keep Chaps. He did. Mother said I’d never learn the value of a penny if I didn’t earn some—this coming from a woman whose money burned a hole in her pocket. But she loved Chaps, too, so Mickey, Chaps, and later Tuffy, another tiger cat, and I lived together until Chaps, at the age of five, developed a liver condition.

  He was so young. I knew enough to understand it would be cruel to keep him going when he’d only go downhill. Once again we visited the vet by the Mason-Dixon Line, only this time Dad drove us. I accompanied my friend. He kissed me. Surely he knew this was an act of grace. I cried. I couldn’t help it, and God bless him, the vet cried, too. Chaps left earth peacefully and without pain. The force of grief as well as gratitude was beginning to be part of my emotional development.

  I know I do not have as big a heart as Chaps or most any dog. Humans don’t. We are cursed with ego, selfishness, and ignorance, overlaid with arrogance. We try. At least some of us do. If I could love to the level of Chaps, I reckon I’d be a saint.

  Chaps, while he taught me how to communicate with dogs, taught me most about love. I can’t live without the love of dogs. I don’t know how anyone can.

  Aunt Mimi’s Butch. Photo by Julia Buckingham Brown.

  Animals Can Save Your Life

  Thanks to a scrappy fox terrier named King Edward, I learned at the age of six that animals can save your life. They can also help you to stick up for yourself.

  King Edward, Ed for short, was owned by Mother’s good friend Diddy Pocahontas (I will refrain from using her real last name should some distant relative be one step ahead of a running fit). Diddy swore she owed her life to King Edward because before she found the lump he’d kept poking at her bosom. Once she realized something wasn’t right, she marched into the doctor’s, thereby losing her bosom but keeping her life. She never doubted King Edward after that.

  Diddy did not get her missing bosom rebuilt. This was in the early fifties and plastic surgery was in its infant stages. She used the empty cup of her bra for a purse. In the warm months she’d wear low-cut bodices, reach in and fish out her money. No one said anything except her mother, Mary, who continually urged her to wear a falsie.

  Diddy’s response was, “You can always tell how much money I have by looking at my bosom.”

  Mary’s response goes unrecorded. It wasn’t charitable.

  Mary, getting grand in her sixties, told anyone who would listen that she was a descendant of the original Pocahontas, whose bones lay safely in the Episcopal churchyard which she visited frequently. She visited it frequently because only the dead would have her. She was a holy terror who couldn’t help bullying her own daughter and anyone else who got in her way. King Edward couldn’t stand her. And if your four-footed friend doesn’t like someone, pay attention. They aren’t worth liking.

  Now, Mother was the hub of social and political activity in two counties, Carroll County, Maryland, and York County, Pennsylvania. One of her sayings was “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” She shepherded many friends and not a few enemies. Everyone had dogs, cats, horses, birds, and most of the local farmers ran cattle. Mother prided herself on knowing everyone, and that included pets and work animals. One June, she organized a picnic. People outnumbered June bugs. She had guests that were newborn and two in their nineties. Julia Brown threw a great party. She was never short on guests.

  Everyone brought their dogs. Butch, my aunt’s Boston Terrier, was there, and Tiny, Lila Meeney’s dachshund, along with Diddy’s King Edward and Chaps, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever. He was four then. So many dogs. I loved it. As the decibel level increased, the dogs retreated, for the noise troubled them.

  What was causing such a ruckus? Turns out someone from Other Parts (not Virginia, not Maryland) stupidly tried to press Mary for the truth about her connection to the original Pocahontas.

  We all knew that the original Pocahontas, called “Poke” by Mother, had died in London and was probably buried there. But we knew better than to say this in front of Mary. Back then Southern women could faint at the drop of a hat. Some ladies were prone to a genteel swoon where the lady in question would sway, drop to her knees, and flop over, thereby escaping injury. Others went down like a ship hit below the water line, accompanied by moans, groans, or silent suffering. That’s why people such as Mother—remember, she pretty much ran both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line—carried smelling salts. She’d kneel and press the hanky with the smelling salts under the lady’s nose. Eyelids would flutter. The spectators would fan the lady. If she was well built, the men fanned vigorously. Southerners, even now, understand that life is theater. A good faint might be considered a social skill.

  So during our June picnic, when Mary was challenged on her illustrious tribal heritage, she sank like a stone. She lay there awhile before Mother realized few people wished her to revive. She dutifully cracked the smelling salts into her hanky and kneeled down, just as King Edward lifted his leg. Mary shot up, shouting, “Diddy, I will kill that worthless dog. I will strangle him. I will strangle you.” It went on. Diddy rolled her eyes—“Oh, la”—which further inflamed her mother.

  Whether or not Diddy consumed Dutch courage I don’t know. I could tell if someone was three sheets to the wind but I couldn’t determine if they’d only knocked back a drink or two. Perhaps Diddy did just that and King Edward’s comment on her supine mother emboldened her.

  I’d never heard a proper lady cuss in public before. Diddy scorched the earth. “I am sick and tired of eating your shit.” That was for starters. Mary, eyes big as eight balls, screamed back, “I brought you into this world, I can take you out.”

  We could have sold tickets to that show, which wound up with a totally revived Mary chasing Diddy down to the pond. Diddy escaped in a canoe, King Edward jumped in, her mother stood on the shore cursing Diddy, King Edward, and the entire assembled crowd. Sure was a good picnic.

  Later, Mary consoled herself with sherry laced with something stronger. You see, a lady couldn’t luxuriate in a straight shot of bourbon or scotch, as it would excite comment. So Mary, her slender flask tucked into her stocking, discreetly poured the contents into a glass of sherry. Of course we all knew but pretended that it wasn’t happening. Skirts, long and flowing then, could hide plenty of obj
ects, even people. The incongruity of a lady hiding her drinking but swearing like a fishmonger was also overlooked.

  Soon Mary was out cold, lying on a blanket. No bucket was necessary. She had a hollow leg. She’d not throw up, for which I was grateful.

  Diddy rowed back in, chin up, face radiant. She and her friend Lila Meeney, both good-looking women with good racks (although Diddy sported half a rack), danced, laughed, and frolicked. Lila belonged to the Man-of-the-Month Club and her pick for June was Carter Farley, a fellow of average intelligence and above-average looks.

  Diddy sat down with King Edward on her lap. The summer dress, thin cotton, cut low, allowed King Edward to delicately reach in and pull out bills with his teeth. No one thought a thing of it except Mary, and she was again dead to the world.

  Mother moved through the crowd gathering support for a zoning variance. A small company wanted to build something really new called air conditioners and Mother thought it was a good idea.

  The picnic roared on, twilight adding even more allure to the gathering. Despite Diddy’s missing boob, men found her attractive. Freed of her mother’s constant judgment, ready for anything after her public fuss with Mary, she openly flirted with Rupert, Rupe for short. He was the Esso station owner, a nice man, even if he did always have grease under his fingernails. I was already fond of Rupe because he was one of the few adults who actually invited me to ask questions once I told him how much I liked motors. He owned a boxer, Spike. Spike and King Edward were great friends and it was apparent that Rupe and Diddy were becoming great friends, too.

  Mother said you could tell because the dogs got along so well. Obviously, they’d been keeping company on the sly.

  Meanwhile, Lila and Carter, Tiny trailing along, had wandered off in the starlight.

  Mary began to revive as the temperature cooled down. She opened her eyes to see Rupe put his arm around Diddy’s waist. She blinked, sat up, none the worse for wear. She harangued Diddy that she could do better than a grease monkey.

  Diddy didn’t bother to fight but simply said, “Mother, shut up. I’m doing what I want.”

  King Edward growled and Spike looked on in amazement. Diddy turned on her heel, Rupe and the two dogs following in her wake. Mary stood up only to crumple down. Too much bourbon—I mean sherry.

  Lila, Carter in tow, walked back to the group upon hearing the ruckus. Mary turned on her. “Slut” fell out of Mary’s mouth. Worse fell out of Lila’s. Tiny emerged from underneath Lila’s skirt to attack Mary. He bit her ankles. Mary screamed she’d get rabies.

  That was how Mary came to have the rabies shots in her stomach even though Tiny was a perfectly healthy dachshund. Mary wanted attention. She reported a vicious dog to the sheriff, who wrote it all down. Then when Mary left his office he tossed it in the waste can.

  Diddy married Rupe. Mary pulled herself together to be the mother of the bride. It was an October wedding. Both dogs attended the reception, also going along on the honeymoon.

  What a lovely man Rupe was, and he made Diddy happy, even as Mary fussed that Diddy married beneath her. Rupe overlooked his mother-in-law and I came to understand that people like Mary, funny though they may be, are utterly miserable inside. Anyone who can’t embrace life is a sorry soul and they’ll make you sorry, too.

  When King Edward died in 1954, Diddy cried. Rupe did, too, but the person who went all to pieces was Mary Pocahontas. Funny.

  King Edward saved Diddy’s life, not only by finding the lump in her breast, but also by showing her that it was possible to stand up to her mother. If Ed hadn’t helped her find her backbone, she would’ve missed out on a rich life with Rupe. And we would have missed out on that unforgettable picnic.

  Rudy and Godzilla curled up together. Photo by Judy Pastore.

  Courtship and Mating

  Mother had a refreshingly low opinion of monogamy. Naturally one did one’s best. If a wild moment came upon you, the best course of action was to be discreet, she would explain to her sister, Mimi.

  Aunt Mimi would glow with indignation. Of course, Mother knew that Sister, as she called her, gave herself up to the thrill of infidelity once in the 1930s. Naturally, my aunt suffered amnesia on this issue.

  Mother pointed out that many animals, like the human, are not monogamous, while others are. She also pointed out that marriage provides camouflage. Produce an heir and a spare and then do what you will. Just be careful. None of which means you don’t honor and love your husband. Hopefully, you do. However, Mother couldn’t fathom how anyone whose blood temperature hung at 98.6°F wouldn’t occasionally be attracted by another man. Then again, Mother was a bold spirit who knew that all ideologies, whether religious or governmental, exist to take you away from yourself. Her advice was always “Keep your mouth shut and do what you want.” She certainly did.

  Mother was a keen observer of nature, and thanks to her example, I was fascinated by the behavior of animals. Clearly cats, dogs, and horses didn’t mate for life. But geese seemed to be quite faithful, and I noticed that the foxes stuck together until the cubs left, which in Maryland and Virginia is usually late October. Then the male might leave the den or he might not.

  Watching foxes as a child, I also learned that the breeding cycle was tied to the food supply. I couldn’t figure out how they knew what the food supply would be when the cubs were born and growing. Here in central Virginia, foxes typically breed in early January. Usually those are the grays; they start before the reds. The reds come courting late January and February. How do they know? We sure don’t. We can develop the most sophisticated weather instruments and we make many predictions: we are inaccurate. But the fox knows.

  I’d talk about these things with Mother. She never said I was foolish or that I pestered her with stupid questions. She loved nature. My curiosity and study delighted her. A good thing, too, because I wasn’t turning into the kind of daughter she had envisioned, which is to say a smaller model of herself: a femme fatale. However, we shared enough that we could spend time happily together. Her view of foxes was we would never understand them because we (meaning science at that time) considered them vermin. Vermin don’t rate study or government grants. Everything I know about foxes I have learned from Mother, PopPop, or my own observation.

  The monogamy issue puzzled me. I noticed over the years that some dog foxes (that is, the males) would leave the den when the cubs did. But they would return to the female for breeding season. There was a bond between some of them. The boys would leave, but the half-grown girls often stayed close, building dens near the parent couple. I’d eagerly give Mother the news about this. I built little scent stations to count the paw prints. Often you can distinguish between paws and thereby get an idea of how many foxes crossed your station. All it takes is a two-foot square of sand or dirt smoothed out. You pour fox urine on it. Most hunting/outdoor stores carry small bottles of it. Deer hunters use it to mask human scent from deer. What an unwise move if the foxhounds are running. I saw this nearly ruin a hunt once. The poor foxhounds thought, “My, what a queer fox.” The human thought, “Oh, shit.”

  Every day, come back to the scent station, count the prints, smooth it out, refresh the odor. I’d do this at the end of October when the cubs, especially the males, usually disperse. Latitude determines dispersement. If you are in Genesee Valley Hunt territory outside of Rochester, New York, probably you’d do this earlier. If you’re hunt staff for Misty Morning Hounds in Gainesville, Florida, you’d probably make the station much later.

  When mating season came, I’d bundle up and watch. Some males, mostly young ones, couldn’t find a female or were chased off by a bigger male. Foxes, like dogs, have identifiable features. You can often tell them apart. The next year, that former young fellow would be bigger, and sure enough, he’d find a girlfriend. I asked Mother if they loved each other. She thought about this and declared she expected they loved each other better than some human pairs, probably not as much as others.

  Foxes, like cats, are
not herd or pack animals. But they have a family feeling. I liked watching the family grow.

  As I was coming to grips with mating, I started looking at humans. Men lowered their voices, women raised theirs. Men pushed their shoulders back. A woman often dropped a shoulder slightly in the presence of a male she found attractive so as to make him seem taller. This fascinated me as much as watching foxes. Once you know what to look for, who is attracted to whom is glaringly obvious. And, as in all the higher vertebrates, the woman controls the deal.

  Poor men. So many of them can’t read the signs, continually running into walls and becoming, I’m sure, frustrated and sad. Women don’t like high-pitched voices in men. Nor do they like men who cut them off physically. By this I mean (this usually happens in the teenage years, as the boys get smarter over time, most of them), a young man will put his arm against a wall thereby preventing a woman moving past it. Girls flat-out hate it. The other thing girls hate is when a young man thrusts his pelvis forward. I’m not sure this is a conscious action. It’s obvious what it means and it’s mating behavior. But women, often being better socialized than men (under more physical scrutiny), are appalled. It’s just too damned obvious. I’d run back to Mother with my latest observation to be greeted with peals of laughter. I also noticed that boys become loud to attract female attention. It sure does attract attention, but not always in a positive manner.

  The foxes were more subtle than the humans. The horses weren’t. An older or tougher horse would chase a young one away if people were foolish enough to leave an intact male or males in with females. The female can and will break a stallion’s leg if she’s so inclined. Once again the male pays, and this time with his life.