She’d always follow me into the workroom. She stayed until each chapter was finished. She’d sink her fangs into the edge of the papers.
My agent, Wendy Weil, sold that first Mrs. Murphy to Bantam. Publishers, wonderful people for the most part, sit where they sit because they are left-brain people. If they were right-brain, they’d be doing what I do or what a painter, musician, choreographer, composer does. If you’ve produced A they can’t grasp that you have just produced B or that it might sell. How Wendy sold the first Sneaky Pie I don’t know, but she did. And for very little money, I might add. We’re coming up on our eighteenth volume.
Sneaky threw herself into the series. I’d watch her. The ideas she gave me. Much as I’d derided genre literature, I ate my words. I truly clicked my heels, and best of all, I had a partner. I could talk to her, rub her head, listen intently to the cascade of meows. Her cat capers, her killings of vermin and the occasional bird (not appreciated by me) pushed me in the right direction. There’s a nasty bluejay in the series based on reality. The cat’s view of the world is as accurate as I can manage without being a cat. It’s not exactly cute, either.
We began to make money. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Sneaky Pie. Thank you, Writers Guild. Without the strike the cat and I might never have formed our team.
I borrowed a bicycle built for two. What a wonderful author’s photo. Since Sneaky, now a fuller-figured gray tabby but never fat (Pewter, on the other hand, became quite round), liked to ride in the car, I thought if I put her in the front basket of the bicycle built for two and I rode on the rear seat it would make an accurate photo of the relationship. She wouldn’t stay in the basket. I put food in there, her favorite dried treats. No. I tried catnip. No. After three hours of diva behavior, I gave up. The photographer, flown down by Bantam, was fit to be tied. The next day he came up with a photo in the house where I was on the floor and she was leaning against me from behind. Her cooperation, illusory, lasted long enough to get the shot. My assistant at the time, all-around good guy Gordon Reistrup, was actually lying behind me holding her up. She was hateful to him after that but she eventually got over it.
People would laugh in interviews when I’d say she really was my writing partner. I never pressed it, but she was. I actually bought her a computer, a Gateway. Let me add here that I do not use computers. I never will. I value my eyes far too much. But I bought her a disc of different bird types and Gordon would load it. She sat and watched once. Then she walked outside to watch the birds live and in concert. She preferred reality to entertainment even if the birds on the disc actually were birds in life and thus filmed. She knew the difference.
She lived to almost twenty. She became thin but would still play. She came to work religiously. One morning she walked out the front door never to return. At that point coyotes had not invaded Virginia. I doubt anything snatched her. She chose to go off and die by herself. There’s dignity in that.
Poor Pewter. She searched for Sneaky for days, and I searched with her. Finally we gave up. Pewter lived until one week before her twenty-third birthday.
Today, Sneaky Pie II performs the work. Her real name is Ibid. If you remember your Latin, that’s “same as above.” Pewter II is Gracie, and both cats look like their predecessors. However, Ibid’s personality differs from her mother’s. Shy and watchful, she runs from strangers. But she’ll lurk nearby and I swear she’s spying. Gracie, on the other hand, lives to be the center of attention.
Sneaky Pie signed her contracts along with me. Fuzzy paw-prints, dipped in stamp ink, appear below my signature. She wouldn’t ride the bicycle built for two but she was a true business partner. Quite tight with her money, too.
The biggest lesson she taught me, among many, is that an animal can make money. Keep your eyes and ears open. Some four-footed creature or bird friend of yours might have the answer to that terrible truth of your life: there’s too much month at the end of the money.
My beloved Idler, in old age. Photo by Cynthia Green Photography.
Wisdom
Life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end the faster it goes. Wonder if it’s the same for our animals, or do they remain blissfully unaware of the pages flying off the calendar? Certainly they understand they are aging, whereas I still think I’m invincible. The mind knows differently but the heart says “Go for it.” In many ways my body is better than it was in my twenties. I’m stronger, faster, and know how to use it better. However, all those injuries collected during flag football, rugby, intercollegiate tennis, more rugby, and most of all polo, remind me when I wake up in the morning that I have collected a lot of “jewelry” and not from Tiffany. But one takes a hot shower, powers down some I-vitamins (ibuprofen), and soon enough, all is well.
As my animals have aged, they, too, receive supplements, extra care. The people that work for me and with me have a lot of collected wisdom. There’s John Morris, Sr.; Junior “Toot,” his handsome son; Robert Steppe, whom I love to torment. They can all give injections, mix potions, and bind wounds, and, if necessary and it’s not bad enough for the vet, we can stitch a creature up. However, no one sews a tight stitch like a good veterinarian. I am well served by Dr. May for the small animals and Anne Bonda for the horses. John’s cousin Melvin Morris works on weekends, and he’s not too squeamish, either. We keep everyone feeling young.
The hunt horses range from four years old (still young) to eighteen. The eighteen-year-old bucks like a four-year-old. Everyone is in rude good health, including me, for which I am thankful.
You and I may not realize how lucky we are. Health is wealth. This is brought forcefully home when someone you love suffers or dies from a lingering disease. Sudden death is shocking, knocks you straight off your feet with grief, but to watch someone you love, human or animal, die by degrees is a special anguish.
Another form of health is in the mind. Animals can be born with mental afflictions, same as people. Much of what we deem human mental illness is a result of civilization and its discontents, to borrow a phrase from Freud. (The original neurotic, though brilliant. Ever notice how people who live from the neck up are a mess?)
Two of the lines of foxhounds I breed are slow to learn. They aren’t mentally deficient, just slow. Most of my hounds are ready to learn at one and by two they really know what they’re doing. But my B and C lines take an extra year. However, once they have it, you can go to the bank with them. A cousin of mine is like that, a bit slow but once it’s in his brain he never forgets, and he’s rock solid.
Brilliant animals, like brilliant people, make trouble if not gainfully employed. About ten years ago, I observed a remarkable animal who had correctly assessed a human’s mental state.
Skyline Kennel Club was putting on a show over in Stuart’s Draft. The building was a great big nondescript block containing roped rings, and there were judges for the various categories: Group I, Sporting Dogs; Group II, Hounds; Group III, Working Dogs; Group IV, Terriers; Group V, Toys; Group VI, Non-Sporting Dogs. Like all beauty pageants, the parade of pulchritude gets your blood up. The Irish Setters, like red kings and queens, commanded attention. The English Setters, more square of body, made you dream of carrying a side-by-side shotgun walking through cornfields in the fall. The bulldogs, as always, represented determination (the sweetest dogs in the kingdom, truly). The Schipperkes made you laugh. All were groomed to perfection, handled by both pros and amateurs, often the owners. Some dogs, like some people, show well. They crave the limelight. All things being equal, those are the dogs that will win a blue ribbon. When the judge picks Best in Show, so often it’s a terrier due to their bright personalities.
In this kind of arena, any scent hound shows at a disadvantage, for a hound should be steady and full of drive, nose to the ground. They aren’t supposed to prance out like Nureyev, head held high. In fact, I find it upsetting if they do so. A sight hound like an Afghan or Saluki shows better since they literally hunt by sight. When they can no longer see their prey,
the hunt’s over, whereas the foxhounds, the bassets, the beagles, the coonhounds, and the bloodhounds keep on keeping on. If they lose the line, they want to find it again.
Setters—all bird dogs—are also dedicated to their work. Today there are two types of Irish Setters, two types of English. You see one type, a bit smaller than the show dogs, far more at field trials. Most of you are accustomed to seeing these breeds at the bench shows. Many have never seen the hunting versions. Mercifully, the progressive breeders and many judges recognized the damage being done by breeders who emphasize the “pretty” factor over other good, sensible traits. This has nearly ruined some animals for their original purpose. The worm is turning. I just pray it turns fast enough.
The Gordon Setter has rarely fallen victim to this dolorous practice, certainly not in the numbers that the Irish and English Setters have. Heavier than the other two setters, Gordons are good guard dogs and can hunt birds with the best of them, albeit at a different pace than the Irish or English.
Cocker spaniels really took a hit from reckless breeding, whereas field spaniels, Sussex spaniels, and the large Cumberland have remained intact, probably because they never caught the public’s attention. I hope Stump’s 2008 Westminster win doesn’t change that. Sussex and Clumbers are an acquired taste, but once acquired, you can never live without one. I must confess that apart from my beloved foxhounds and my good bassets I am besotted with the setters and the field spaniels.
I have an Irish Setter, a big red female with wonderful bone and conformation. She guards the house and me. One of my neighbors learned this to his regret. He walked into the house without knocking and she bit him. Fortunately, he is a country man and realized he was at fault, not Tipper. But don’t walk into my house if I’m not in it.
The hero of this chapter is a Gordon Setter. His prime showing days had vanished, if he ever had them, for he was blockier than he should have been. His coat gleamed and flowed. I do so love the Gordon coat. Well, I love Gordons in general. He walked through the hallways at the dog show, never raising a hackle or causing a problem. He caught my eye because I knew he didn’t stand a tinker’s chance in the ring. He exuded something. Yes, all Gordons do, but he seemed to have an extra dose of steel, that getting-down-to-business quality that I admire. The man walking him moved slowly and deliberately, pausing frequently to watch a class. Soon I was distracted from this Gordon as people I knew came up to chat, friends and acquaintances with their dogs on leads, a couple of judges on their way to the next class. AKC judges, like all of us, have partialities, but all are worth your time. The ones who can judge Best in Show are the top of the top. They are my rock stars, right up there with great huntsmen. By partialities, I mean each of them knows the breed standard forward and backward, yet there is wiggle room in every standard. One judge may like more bone in a Rhodesian Ridge-back than another, for instance.
The Gordon class filled one of the rings and I pushed my way over. At first I couldn’t find “my” Gordon but then I spotted him standing quietly on the sidelines. Whew. I hated the thought of him being dismissed early.
Later, Skyline began offering a class for handlers. This was such a good idea. The focus was less about competition than about getting people in the ring with all manner of canines and helping them learn how to show under the eye of a good judge. The judge in this case was more than good. One kid, around twelve years old, give or take, was on the other end of a leash with a beagle, always a crowd pleaser. There was quite a crowd, too, since we all wanted to learn. In fact, you couldn’t move. I was glad I’d hurried over early.
In walked my Gordon Setter. I, along with others, now really noticed his handler. I hadn’t paid attention to the man during the show. I usually focus on the animal first rather than the owner. This middle-aged man had been damaged in some fashion. Whether he was born afflicted or this was the result of an accident, who knew? He moved a little off-kilter. His mind was not quick. However, he was correctly dressed and I perceived that no one was tending to him. He seemed to be self-sufficient and perfectly able to function. But it took him extra time to decipher a command.
The Gordon would sit when the judge called for that. The man would then stop as well. Each request from the judge was first obeyed by the dog. The human copied the dog. As the crowd began to understand what was happening you could hear a pin drop, to use the old expression. All eyes focused on this wonderful dog. When the judge asked for a little movement in the ring, what a show judge with horses could call a “trot,” this majestic animal looked up at his owner, literally touched him with his front paw, and started to move out. The man did likewise but he struggled. In horse terms, he wasn’t a good mover, which could have been the result of an accident. The judge, quite aware and so very kind, gave a little extra time. The others in the ring fell in step. This continued for twenty minutes.
When the class ended, the judge encouraged them all as he shook everyone’s hand. The other handlers then went over and shook the hand of the Gordon’s owner and petted the dog. Tears rolled down my face. I am not a crier and I loathe weeping in public, but I couldn’t help it. Then I noticed just about everyone else was crying, too. Big men, small men, most of the women and the children. That man was so happy he glowed. The Gordon’s tail signaled happiness, too. He looked up at the man and barked one note of joy.
Who of us would have the patience and the wisdom to work with a person like that? Some of you have these gifts and you are in professions where you do much good. I couldn’t do it. Yet our dogs and many horses do it every day, and in the case of the Gordon, all day. Allied to the Gordon’s love was the wisdom that his person needed extra time, extra care.
As always, dogs prove far more sensitive to human needs than most humans. Service dogs are miracle workers. They seem born with a wisdom we lack but we can learn.
My wish for each of us is that we find our own Gordon. None of us is as smart as we think we are. All of us could use some help. There is a dog out there, if you haven’t found one already, that wants to make your life fuller. Give him or her the chance. You’ll be a better person for it.
UG, short for Uninvited Guest. She brought an unusual message concerning an impending death. Photo by Cindy Chandler.
Stand and Fight
Mother taught me to fix the problem, not the blame. I try. I was also taught not to blather on about my personal life. One can discuss ideas, events, the all-important weather. What goes on behind your closed door stays there. Today I’m in the minority. Venting is a national pastime. It’s supposed to be good for your health. Maybe it is, but it’s not good for mine. A true friend can bring me any burden. I will share it. With a little luck and a lot of prayer, I might even be able to fix it. But with regard to the world at large, my feeling is essentially: shut up and get on with it.
Animals don’t vent, whine, or collect injustices. They understand wrongdoing and punish it immediately. No lawyers. No remediation. No therapist. With a cat, it’s a hiss or a whack across the snout. A dog will growl at a miscreant, and might try a takedown as well. Horse’s hooves will fly, or their big teeth might remove a chunk of skin and flesh.
I see this over and over. If my foxhounds come in but one stays out, the others become upset. I’ll look for the hound, as will hunt staff and club members who have worked with the hounds. Sometimes the laggard is young, not quite in the game. The older hounds might vocally abuse the youngster but no real harm is done when she is returned to the kennel. Their correction confirms my authority as head hound, as well as the fact that we hunt as a team, we return as a team.
Virginia, a noticeable girl with large dark brown markings on her glossy white coat, hunts like a demon. Every now and then, Virginia takes a notion. Tantalizing scent lingers here and there. She wants to pursue that scent whether I call her in or not. The other hounds know what she’s doing.
When Virginia does come back to the kennel in her own good time, which happens often, one of us has to wait until the girls settle. When
we put her in the “Big Girls’ Run” the other hounds surround her and growl. If we don’t step in, they will throw her down. If Virginia submits, she might endure puncture wounds on her hindquarters. If not, they’ll tear her apart. Their sense of justice is strong. Virginia has done wrong. If I don’t punish her, they will.
Do I punish her? No. I don’t want her to fear coming back to me or to the kennels. So when she appears, in she goes. We let the bitching and moaning from the others run their course. Then a human, crop in hand, steps in and says harshly, “Leave it.” That works a treat.
Without as many layers of so-called civilization, humans used to act more like hounds. People who didn’t get along weren’t harmed, but they were pointedly ignored. During times of severe repression (Cromwell’s England, for example) an oddball might have been chastised in front of the congregation for not doing God’s bidding with a happy heart. God’s bidding, as I’m sure you know if you read history, mirrored whatever the Puritans wanted it to be. Selective reading of the Bible is hardly modern. You can justify anything this way.
Most humans don’t believe that animals have a sense of justice or morality. “Morality” is a loaded word. Justice is easier to understand. Animals have a clear sense of justice. The punishment fits the crime. Once it did for us, too. If you stole something your hand was cut off, and so forth. Brutal? Yes. Also effective. Although I suppose you could learn to steal with the other hand.
Over the centuries, and especially in the last forty years, a sense of responsibility for one’s actions has been erased. The damage that this disconnect from personal responsibility has done may be beyond calculation. Everyone living in America feels the effects but many don’t want to deal with them.
Animals can’t escape their responsibilities as we can. Their recourse is to kill or run away. Most choose the latter. If pack animals don’t obey the pack rules, they are killed or driven to the edges. If they are killed, it’s because they continually challenge the leaders. Humans still do this, too, but we cover it up better. Entire nations sit on the bones of murdered political foes. No nation has a clean record but some are better than others. Again, you can’t judge the past by the present. People do, but how foolish.
Animal Magnetism Page 14