Sometimes a stallion will bite a female on the neck and savage her, but if she can lash out she will. They should never be left together. Equine breeding should be monitored and controlled as a kindness. Fox courtship and mating seemed more affectionate than the equine variety.
With the passage of decades, I have come to the conclusion that many men can’t read women at all, whereas women can almost always read men. And while my mother may have been a heretic to monogamy, she’d grumble if a married man was stupid enough to tip his hand. She could always tell, and now I could, too.
She’d point out to me what our neighbor Earl was doing and why his wife was blind as a bat. I’d reply maybe she didn’t want to know. Mother gave me points for that insight. Life is easier if you deny painful things, at least for a time. Small wonder that drink, drugs, and various obsessions gain such control over us.
I noticed, especially among the horses, that mares would become devoted to one another, geldings, too. Mother’s response to this was, “Love who you will but marry and produce children.” She understood the human animal. Love is the wild card of existence.
As I pondered monogamy I ran smack into racism via separate fountains, motels, bus seats. As to most children of any race, it was confusing and very unsettling. At least I had the advantage of being Caucasian, so I wasn’t thrown to the back of the bus, but I became upset that others were. I said to Mother that it was stupid and she agreed but she also said she didn’t know how to change it. Then she said something that once again brought me back to animals: “Honey, it doesn’t matter if a cat is black or white so long as it catches mice.”
Many years later, her Chesterfield stapled to her lips, red with her favorite lipstick, I mentioned to her what I learned from foxes and her.
I said, “I’ve come to the conclusion that monogamy is contrary to nature but necessary for the greater social good.”
She took a deep drag, her big poodle at her feet, laughed, and replied, “Aren’t you the smartypants?”
Peaches, the house clown.
Every Animal Has a Gift
Mother told me every animal has a gift, and that gift keeps it alive. I could easily see a cat’s gifts. There are so many: a cat can turn on a dime and give you a nickel’s change. Their eyesight is much better than ours as are their hearing and sense of smell. Add to this the fact that cats don’t give a damn. They’ll do as they please.
The sheer athletic ability of a feline is astonishing. Foxes display much the same agility, although they can’t jump quite as high as cats. At least, I’ve never seen one do so. But I’ve seen them jump straight up and twist over backwards to land on their feet. Impressive.
Foxes fascinated me as a child. Still do. If I didn’t have my retriever Chaps with me on a walk, they’d pop out of their dens to look at me. A bark or little gurgle might let me know their opinion of me. Sometimes a fox would walk along with me about twenty yards off. As they are omnivorous, whatever I chewed on interested them. I’d leave out hard candy or pieces of my sandwich. This found favor with them. In many ways, a fox is like a dog: intelligent, curious. But they hunt differently than dogs do, which I figured out by following the gun dogs, usually English Setters or small Irish Setters. Some of these setters were red and white, and are now recognized as a separate breed by the AKC.
Foxes hunt like cats. They stay still, then pounce. If there’s snow on the ground they’ll cock their ear in one direction, then the other, only to pounce in the middle where imaginary sound lines intersect, for they can hear the mice under the snow. This only works if the snow is light on the ground so there’s air and tunnels. If it slicks down like vanilla icing, the mice stay in their nests. Who wouldn’t?
I also realized that the fox mind works more quickly than my own. Yes, humans gave us the Brandenburg Concertos, As You Like It, the Sistine Chapel, etc., yet grand as these contributions are, you can’t eat them. Even if a fox could write the vulpine War and Peace I doubt he or she would. What’s the point? We need distractions and lessons in a way no other species seems to, which, as a child, I found confusing. I loved to read, I’d even read to the foxes and the birds. Mickey and Chaps would sit and listen and sometimes the wild animals would tilt their heads and listen for a time. I expect my cadence held their attention.
What mystified me was this: What is the human gift? I’m still working on that. What I was told in school proved untrue. My teachers would trumpet the superiority of the human animal. Point one: we walk upright. That’s a recipe for slowness and a bad back later in life. Point two: we create tools and other species don’t. Apparently, my teachers never watched a blackbird, a monkey, or even a house cat use an object to acquire what they want. Then came the big revelation of the opposable thumb. It’s helpful, but it isn’t the end-all be-all. Finally, they seized upon language.
Chaps understood nouns and verbs. How many, I didn’t know, but he knew language, even though he couldn’t reproduce it. The draft horses and mules in my life clearly understood commands in English. Humans do seem to have a more sophisticated level of language skills, but I suspect that this is as much a curse as a gift.
Mostly it’s noise. Few people say anything of consequence and mostly they talk about themselves or their family. Nothing too original there, but being another human, one must listen and pretend the news is incredibly fresh. For any of us, probably one percent of our talking life we’ve uttered something profound or important. I count myself in that number. My advantage is I don’t talk much unless I am called upon to give a speech.
Mother, shoving me into cotillion, harangued me to be a good conversationalist. I can do it. Hell, after twelve years of various forms of cotillion plus her relentless instruction, I’d be a blistering idiot if I couldn’t chat. That doesn’t mean I like it one bit more than when I was a child.
When I would sit a ways from the fox dens, I could hear them chattering inside. Sometimes one would come out and chatter at me. It wasn’t a “Get out of here, Two Legs” bark. It was “Hi” or “You won’t believe what my wife just did.” By age seven I knew the difference. Yet the fox, for all its intelligence, evidenced no need to say much more.
The one time a fox isn’t intelligent is if you give the distress call. There are little wooden horns, sort of like geese call horns, that make the fox distress noise. They’ll run out to help, and in this way they are trapped. I am bitterly opposed to trapping unless it’s a humane trap. John Morris, who works with me, traps our foxes so we can get the rabies and distemper shots in them. We can only trap them once in the Havahart traps. They know the drill after that. Since chasing foxes is the grand passion of my life, their well-being matters. I’m proud of Oak Ridge Fox Hunt Club’s work in keeping them healthy. Hunt staff perform numerous services that benefit pet owners, but we don’t advertise our efforts. People in our territories, much less cities, don’t realize that in a small way we are reducing the incidence of rabies, distemper, and mange in these beautiful creatures. (And no, we don’t kill foxes in our foxhunts, so don’t get your knickers in a knot.)
Bird plumage never goes out of fashion. Photo by Judy Pastore.
The Purpose of Plumage
Aunt Mimi’s best friend, apart from Mother and Delphine Falkenroth, was Butch, her Boston Terrier, which she insisted on calling a Boston Bull. A large fellow, Butch was always the picture of elegance in his “tuxedo.” But appearances can be deceiving, because he did not always behave like a gentleman. The two of them went everywhere together, except for the garden club because once Butch ate some tulip bulbs belonging to Mrs. Mundis. Aunt Mimi muttered they weren’t worth squat, but nonetheless to keep the peace she paid Mrs. Mundis, who was well off, and she no longer brought Butch to garden club. Just as well, because the lectures bored him, which is why he ate the tulip bulbs in the first place.
I have written elsewhere, in fictional form, of the fierce competition at the garden shows. Aunt Mimi, famed for her daffodils as well as her beautiful clothing, spiked her daffs w
ith gin. What bright happy daffodils they were. My aunt, a very attractive woman, declared alcohol never touched her lips. We always knew when she had “tested” her daffodil mixture because Butch would refuse to kiss her.
Both Mother and Aunt Mimi suffered from lead foot. Put them behind the wheel of any machine—tractor, car, motor cycle—and you burnt the wind. If Mother wasn’t riding shotgun, Butch was. He loved to go “bye byes,” and the only time Aunt Mimi evidenced any inclination to keep to sensible speeds around corners was when Butch was her passenger, because he’d fall over. I had to sit in the back. The dog came first.
My esteemed aunt’s driving capabilities were so well known in the county that when people spied her coming down the road in the opposite direction they pulled over. Pedestrians moved far off the road. She’d wave, nod, and smile but she rarely slowed down.
One frosty moonlit night, Aunt Mimi was driving Mother, Butch, and me back from some ameliorative function. Those two took part in so many committees, fundraisers, social events, I couldn’t keep track, and this one ran way late. As we reached the town square a young woman, swaddled in a heavy coat and scarf, wearing fashionable high-heeled shoes despite the cold, slowly trawled the sidewalk.
Aunt Mimi sniffed, “Only owls and whores are abroad this time of night.”
“What’s a whore?”
Mother quickly replied, “A whore is a woman who sells her body to men.”
“Julia, don’t tell her that!”
Mother considered this admonition. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Big cities have whores. In the country we do it for free.”
“Juts!” Aunt Mimi peeled around the other side of the square a bit too fast, but we stayed upright.
I hugged Butch. He was accustomed to his human’s behavior.
“Oh, Sis, she has to learn about these things sometime.”
“Why would anyone pay?” My curiosity was getting the better of me.
“This isn’t a proper topic for a child of your tender years.” My aunt hit the know-it-all tone. “Suffice it to say that ladies of quality guard their virtue.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I noticed a lady in a ratty fur coat urinating against the side of a building. “Look, that lady is peeing standing up.”
The square after nine at night had a certain amount of demimonde traffic, which is putting it nicely.
“Don’t look!” Aunt Mimi cried, too late.
“How can she do that?” I was completely fascinated, wondering if there was a trick I’d missed in learning to relieve myself.
“She is a he.” Mother started to laugh.
“Juts, will you shut up?” Aunt Mimi started to laugh, too.
“If that person hadn’t been going to the bathroom how would you know?”
Mother let out peals of laughter. “The coat, honey, the coat. No real woman would be caught dead in that tatty thing.”
“And the makeup.” Aunt Mimi now warmed to the subject. “Ladies of quality don’t paint their faces, and when men do it, they always overdo. Always overdo the accessories, too.”
“Now, Sis, we use lipstick and a hint of rouge.”
“Lipstick.” She refused to admit to rouge.
“When in trouble, buy new lipstick.” Mother turned to face me in the backseat. “Remember that, kid. Might save you some day.”
“Why would that man dress like a woman?” I wasn’t giving up.
“Envy.” Mother giggled.
A silence from the driver was finally broken. “You know, Juts, you’ve got a point there. Why else?”
“We get to wear silks and furs and pretty colors. What do they get? Blue, brown, gray, black. I’d perish from visual boredom. And let’s not forget hats, gloves, purses, shoes in all different colors. What do they get? One wallet. It’s better to be a woman.”
They started a review of their women friends’ clothing, color palettes, and house décor. I listened for a time but my mind flitted back to owls and other birds.
Some species change coat with the seasons, but no other animals flash about like birds. Who can forget the sight of a male cardinal in the snow? An iridescent indigo bunting darting out in front of you? Apart from the brightly colored birds there are the ones who blend in, like woodcocks. Even a turkey, fantail folded, can take a moment to discern because of the coloring. When the male unfolds his tail, it’s impressive, for they are big birds with incredible eyesight. Even if you’re in camouflage, still as a mouse, move your eyes and a turkey will see the whites and fly off. Anyone who can bag a turkey has my utmost respect.
Bird plumage never goes out of fashion. Mother’s and Aunt Mimi’s laughter about the transvestite’s tatty coat told me I’d better make the right choices about my plumage. Mother didn’t expect me to wear a tiara while driving the tractor, but she pounded into me the importance of dressing for the occasion. I used to do it but it’s gotten too expensive. And one time about twenty years ago, a media escort said to me at a signing, “Do you want to look richer than your readers?”
Actually, I’d like to look a little dressed up, but the ordeals of air travel have made it all but impossible.
Bird displays send signals and so do our clothes. Even in this informal and sloppy age, clothes still make the man, and the woman. Aunt Mimi’s dog always wore his tuxedo. Someday I think I’ll show up at a formal event with a Boston Terrier and I’ll wear a tuxedo, too. You’ll recognize me because I’ll be the one in heels.
Mother gave me her love of horses and nature. In the foreground is an old retiree, in the background is Gunsmoke, a Thoroughbred. Photo by Danielle A. Durkin.
Mother’s Gift of Nature
So many different kinds of owls lived near us or in the old outbuildings. We had barn owls, screech owls, the Great Horned Owl, and one hard winter we even had a white owl, the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen. I’ve never seen another one in these parts. That was in 1953.
If I was quiet in the winter, I was allowed to stay up and read late. In the summers, Mother allowed me to stay outside late. I’d listen to the owls talk. If they were angry or giving warning, the noise was harsh, hard on human ears. They’d coo and cackle happily, too. The mating calls were pretty, especially those of the Great Horned. I loved to listen to them answer one another.
People who aren’t close to animals explain their behavior in utilitarian terms. I believe most of the higher vertebrates are capable of joy. Sometimes, hearing the owls, I felt they burbled, gurgled, and sang for the joy of being alive. This is especially obvious with songbirds such as cardinals.
When I was in school we were taught that the females are capable of singing, but only the males do it. This isn’t true. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, the male may start a song, but then the female comes in and they sing a duet so finely tuned it sounds like one bird. The song is clear with distant cadence, long notes, short notes in predicable progression. It’s an easy song for a human to whistle.
Their eyesight is so superior to ours, we can’t imagine it, just like we can’t imagine how fast a fox processes information. Birds fly high, diving down to grab a mouse or a fish. Not the seed eaters but the flesh eaters. They fold their wings next to their bodies and dive. The waterbirds go straight into the water. The ground birds open their wings at the last moment and grab their prey feet first.
Owls have soft feathers. They fly silently. No rustle. A blackbird has noisy feathers. You can hear them overhead.
One crisp night in early winter I asked my mother, “How many owls do you know?”
“Ha. More than you. Put your coat on.”
We bundled up. It was way past my bedtime but Mother could be flexible. I had to keep Mickey and Chaps inside. She said they’d spoil it.
We walked outside. The ground was hard with heavy frost. A stone bench was planted under a huge old hickory. We sat down. Soon enough we heard the owls calling to one another. Mother, a keen birder, identified the various notes. Some were “You’re in my territory” calls. Others were a simple “
Hi.” A few registered complaints, loud and clear. Due to the cold, there were no insects. The only sounds were owls calling, the occasional bleat of a cow, and the rustling of a nocturnal creature. There weren’t as many deer back then so I heard none. The deer are easy to identify by sound.
I often recall that bright, cold night when Mother eagerly shared her love of nature. She taught me to recognize many birdcalls. I might know fifty, sixty at most. I still have trouble sorting out the different warbler calls, but most birdcalls are very clear once you memorize them. A goldfinch or indigo bunting sounds nothing like a bluejay. There are some variations, though, in, say, a thrush. They express some individuality.
Bluejays can mimic, just like catbirds and mockingbirds. What fun to hear them. The bluejays in particular can be creative. They’ll swoop near a bird feeder and sound like a ferocious predator bird. This scatters the little birds. Then down they pop to eat up everything. One spring day, Mother, on that same bench, whistled various tunes to a mockingbird, who reproduced them exactly.
Why? Does it matter? I am weary of people needing reasons. What mattered was that the mockingbird delighted Mother, myself, and apparently itself.
“Birds tell you the weather,” Mother told me. “You know the birds that leave for winter. If they leave early, it will be an early winter. But all birds can tell you when storms are coming. They hop around and talk a lot way before the storm hits. Eat what they can. Then all of a sudden they’re in their nests and cubbyholes. When it’s quiet like that, won’t be long.”
As the decades have rolled on, I’ve continued to study birds. I’m hardly an expert. For one thing, my study often focuses on hunting. When I hunt my foxhounds, the birds are invaluable to me. If the goldfinches fill the bushes, along with other small birds, I know my fox has not passed by in the last fifteen minutes. If they’re up in the trees and chattering, then they’ve been disturbed. Now, it may not be the fox that disturbed them, but something has, and I’d best be alert.
Animal Magnetism Page 3