Full Cry

by Rita Mae Brown

  Walter, overwhelmed, sighed. “Sister, how am I going to remember all this? It’s Greek to me.”

  Sister, who had a few years of Greek in college, smiled. “If you mastered organic chemistry, bloodlines will be a snap.”

  “Can I read up on this?”

  “The books start in the early eighteenth century. Well, actually, I think Xenophon even mentioned hound breeding, but don’t fret, Walter. I’ll give you a list of the classics. The MFHA has FoxDog: their computer software. I struggle with it, but Shaker’s got the hang of it. I’m not exactly a computer whiz, but I can send e-mail.”

  “FoxDog?” He bent his tall frame over to pat both Wanda and Sweetpea.

  “All the bloodlines for every hunt for each of the main types of foxhounds are on FoxDog. I can’t imagine sitting down and entering all that information. God bless the MFHA.” She paused. “But I’ll tell you, the best way to learn about hounds and breeding is to hunt, hunt, hunt, and watch. Go to any hunt you can, mounted or on foot, and observe. The great ones stay in your mind just like the great horses or movie stars.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “And you’ll soon know what I’m talking about when I say that Piedmont Righteous ‘71 was bred to Warrenton Star, which gave us a bitch, Piedmont Daybreak ’79, and she produced Piedmont Hopeful ‘83, a very great bitch. A lot of people will say they want Hopeful in the tail female line, and all that sounds impressive, but I just watch hounds. I don’t give a damn if the nick is on top or on bottom—”

  Walter held up his hand. “Sister, what’s a nick? You’ve lost me.”

  “Nick is a bad hound who hunts coons” Wanda was referring to a neighbor’s hound, whom she didn’t much like. Although Nick was a good coonhound, he didn’t pay his proper respects to Wanda—a girl with a big ego.

  “I think of a nick as a lucky cross. Funny Cide, terrific racing horse, a gelding, you know whom I’m talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, he won’t be retired to stud, but people will study his pedigree and try the same or similar cross if they can. Nothing wrong with that, but I think you can get a good result playing with the template, if you will. Instead of just copying something that in the thoroughbred world would mean hundred of thousands of dollars, reverse the nick or go back to the grandparent generation. If you study, Walter, there’s always a way. I study pedigree. I study hounds, study horses, too. And one of the great things about foxhunting is I can call another master in order to take a bitch to his dog; he or she is flattered. Of course, masters allow this and everyone benefits. You don’t pay for it. The opportunity is freely given. Foxhunting operates on generosity. We improve the animal if we’re careful. The operative word is ‘careful.” “

  “What’s tail line and all that?”

  “Oh. The tail line is the bottom of a breeding chart, the dam or bitch’s side. The top belongs to the dog hound or stallion. I’ll show you when we go in to the office, but you’ll see right what I mean when you check a pedigree. It’s a good thing to study and research pedigrees. It’s a better thing to see performance in the field and to talk to those who know the antecedents of a good hound.”

  “I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He whistled. “Can’t wait. And Sweetpea and Wanda, I can’t wait to see the babies.”

  “Mine will be better” Wanda bragged.

  Sweetpea, easygoing, just licked Sister’s hand. “I love you, Sister. I’ll give you good puppies.”

  “Precious.” Sister kissed her head, then patted Wanda.

  They left, closing the gate behind them, and walked the long outdoor corridor to the main kennel building. Once inside, she showed him Sweetpea’s pedigree of this year’s entry from Sweetpea and Ardent. Walter realized the format was exactly the same as a horse pedigree. He felt better.

  The door opened, and Shaker stepped through. “Draw list for tomorrow?”

  “Haven’t done it yet. Did you do yours?”

  “Yes.” He placed his list on the desk then spoke to Walker. “I’m not sitting around.”

  “Give it another day, Shaker. Really. I’m not worried about your ribs. The concussion worried me even though it wasn’t bad. But give it another day.”

  “Who’s going to hunt hounds tomorrow? I need to go out.” “You and Lorraine can be wheel whips. I’m not taking any chances with you. If you miss tomorrow, well, it’s not great, but if you miss the rest of the season, the best part of the season, I’ll be one step ahead of a fit,” Sister reminded him.

  Shaker sat on the edge of the desk. “For Chrissakes, people get their bell rung all the time.”

  “They aren’t fabulous huntsmen. And how do you blow the horn when you’re galloping?” Sister hoped the compliment would somewhat mollify him.

  “Practice. It’s a good idea to go out with an empty bladder, too.” “I figured that out.” She laughed. “I’ll hunt the hounds tomorrow. God willing, nothing awful will happen. Let’s take steady eddies, no young entry. Make it easy for me. Tuesday, you’ll be back in the saddle and all will be well.”

  “No, what’s going to happen is you’ll love hunting hounds, and we’ll have a fight,” Shaker grumbled.

  “I will love hunting them. I loved yesterday even though I had butterflies, but you’re the huntsman and huntsman you’ll stay.” She swiftly ran her eyes down the draw list, dogs on the left side of the page, bitches on the right, first-year entry, young entry, and even some second year with a different-colored mark before the animal’s name. It was a good system. “I’ll get back to you on this.”

  Up at the house, Sister asked Walter about Shaker’s injuries as she heated water for tea.

  “This is the third time you’ve asked since yesterday.” “I’m sorry. He’s very dear to me, even if we fuss.” “He hit hard. He can wrap up his ribs. I want a few more days for his head. By the time I saw him, he was in pretty good shape from the concussion, but you always want to be careful with a head injury.”

  “Thank you again for seeing him. I guess we could have sent him to the ER, but I trust you; I don’t know who’s in the ER.”

  Walter smiled. “Thank you for your confidence, but the team down at the hospital is very good.”

  She poured tea. Walter liked dark teas, as did she. “You don’t know much about foxhounds; I don’t know diddly about medicine. What really is an endocrinologist?”

  “Someone in the right field at the right time. It’s the study of ductless glands. So it’s really the study of the thyroid, the pituitary, and the adrenal glands, basic human chemistry.”

  “Lucrative?”

  “Very. If you have a child whose growth is stunted, you’d go to an endocrinologist. Menopause—think of the money there with the boomer generation. It’s a growing field that will benefit from the constant advancements just in thyroid studies alone. Pretty amazing.”

  “Would an endocrinologist have more ways to make illegal money than, say, yourself?”

  “From medicine?” Walter’s blond eyebrows rose. “Uh, well, Sister, any crooked doctor can make a fortune. Prescribe unnecessary painkillers, OxyContin, mood elevators, Percodan, Prozac. If you’re less than honest, it’s easy, because, of course, the patient wants the drugs.”

  “What about cocaine or heroin?”

  Walter couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t need a doctor. You can get that on the street.”

  “It’s really easy to get coke or marijuana?”

  “As pie. Easy as pie.” Walter sipped the restorative brew. “Our government, the FDA, I could list agencies as long as my arm, and I’ve got long arms, make the mess bigger and bigger. Some drugs are classified as dangerous; others aren’t. I could kill you with caffeine. There’s a hit of caffeine in this tea. Sister, I could kill you with sugar or salt. Americans are literally killing themselves every day with salt and sugar. We are so hypocritical when it comes to—what’s the term?—illegal substances. You’ve got people making policy based on their version of morals instead of,
well, endocrinology. And I’m serious: I could kill someone with caffeine. I’m a doctor; in order to save lives, you have to know what takes those lives. Any doctor worth his salt, forgive the pun, can kill and make it look perfectly natural. But as I said, why bother? Americans are killing themselves.”

  She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. “Mmm.”

  “Why this sudden interest in endocrinology?”

  “Dalton Hill’s specialty. He’s paid his associate membership; he’s been hunting pretty consistently. Good rider.”

  “Bought that Cleveland bay.”

  “Yes.” She frowned a moment. “Obviously, he has money.”

  “Right.” Walter smiled. “He’s an endocrinologist.”

  She smiled back. “What do you know about him?”

  Walter shrugged. “Leave of absence from the Toronto hospital, teaching this semester, and he’s brilliant. That’s what I hear.”

  “Do you like him?”

  A long pause followed her question. Walter cleared his throat. “Not really.”

  “Cold.”

  “More or less. He’s thawing a bit, thanks to your geniality and the hospitality of Virginians in general.” Walter thanked her as she refreshed his tea. “He’s recently divorced, which is why I think he’s teaching this semester. A chance to get away. Clear the head.”

  “I’ve been curious about him.” She smiled again. “Can’t have too many doctors in the field. Wish we could get the entire hospital staff to hunt.”

  “You wouldn’t want that. We’ve got some first-class fruitcakes.”

  “And the hunt doesn’t?”

  They laughed.

  “Back to hounds,” Walter said. “Can you breed for the task? By that I mean, can you breed an anchor hound?”

  “We could be here for weeks on that one. Well… yes and no. I have noticed certain characteristics passing in certain of my lines. For example, Delia, mother of Diddy and those first-year entry, comes from my D line. D hounds are consistently steady, and they enter and learn fairly quickly. On the other hand, I’ve observed that my R line can be brilliant, but it seems to skip a generation. Rassle, Ruthie, and Ribot are brilliant. Their mother wasn’t; she was just there. Her mother was outstanding. Like I said, the answer to your question is yes and no.”

  “It’s fascinating.”

  “And highly addictive.” She reached for a sugar cookie. “The more you breed, the more you want to breed, and you drive yourself onward with the dream of perfection.” She sighed. “Well, humility goes a long way. And even in the great crosses, the golden nicks, you still must cull.”

  “The hard part.”

  “God, yes. I think a youngster won’t work for us, I draft him to a good pack, he’s terrific. Now some of that can be because he’s in, say, a newer pack. He’s not overshadowed by Diana or an upcoming Trident. He becomes a star. But you never truly know until they hunt for you or for someone else.”

  “This is going to make me think.” Walter laughed.

  “You think plenty. Now you’ll be hunting, watching in a new way. You’ll be singling out hounds, observing young entry, seeing who contributes. The slow days are the best days to learn about the hounds. You see who really works. Might be dull for the run-and-jump crowd, but those slow days offer the best lessons a foxhunter can get.”

  “I’ve never had a bad day hunting.”

  “A bad day’s hunting is a good day’s work.” They laughed again and she changed the subject. “I’ve learned to trust my instincts hunting on and off a horse as well. I’m unsettled about Donnie’s death. And the deaths of Mitch and Tony.”

  “Do you think Donnie wanted to burn out Clay?”

  “Sure looks like he did.” Sister glanced out the window. “It’s like drawing through a heavy covert: you know the fox is in there, but you can’t get him up and running. I’ve seen days when hounds, my hounds and other packs, too, have drawn right over a fox. I feel that’s what’s going on.”

  “What do you do on a day like that?”

  “Keep moving, but,” she paused dramatically, “later you can come back and draw in the opposite direction. Sometimes you can get him up that way because he didn’t expect it.”

  Walter tapped his spoon on the side of the mug, then stopped. “Sorry.”

  “Is that how you think?”

  “I have to do something rhythmic,” he replied.

  “I do my best thinking working outside or sometimes in bed just before I fall asleep. But do you see what I mean about drawing over the fox? We’re drawing over those deaths, over information.”

  “I’d put it another way. You’re on the right track, but the train’s not in the station.”

  “Not yet.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The burnt orange of Betadine stained Dragon’s white fur. Aggressive and domineering as he could be with other hounds, he was an uncommonly sweet hound to people.

  He stood on the stainless steel examining table as Sister and Gray sponged his wounds with antiseptic.

  Lifting sixty- to eighty-pound hounds tested Sister after the sixth hound. Shaker had wanted to help, but his ribs needed to heal, so Sister threw him out of the med room. She had realized that her planned date with Gray at the club would either have to be canceled or pushed back too late, so she had called him to cancel. Since tomorrow was Saturday, the biggest hunting day of the week, she didn’t want to stay out late, plus she was nervous about hunting the hounds. To Sister’s surprise, Gray volunteered to help with her chores.

  Riding, resplendent in perfectly fitting attire, pleases any fox-hunter. Hearing “Gone Away” on the horn, hounds in full cry, is a thrill beyond compare. Few foxhunters, however, evidence any desire to be in the kennels picking up poop, feeding and watering, washing down the feed room and the runs, birthing puppies, or tending to sick or injured hounds in the med room.

  The blood still seeped from Dragon’s wounds. Sister’s old lab coat bore testimony to that. Gray, too, wore a lab coat smeared with mud and bloodstains.

  Dragon was the third hound they worked on. Two hounds had run under barbed wire Thursday, slicing their backs, although they had bled very little.

  The fact that Gray was willing to forgo a fancy dinner and, on top of that, to lift hounds, get dirty, and dab wounds gave him an added luster in Sister’s eyes.

  Gray was the same height as Sister. He was fit and uncommonly strong, as was his wiry, much shorter brother.

  Carrying a beloved red ball, Raleigh padded in to watch, as did Rooster. Golly heard there were mice in the office, so she, too, accompanied the humans and dogs. “Death to mice” was Golly’s motto.

  “Bon sang ne sait mentir” was Sister’s motto, archaic French, which meant, “Good blood doesn’t lie.” This was fitting for a foxhound breeder, but equally fitting for the human animal. Blood tells.

  “There you go, big fella. Guess you won’t cross Cora again.” Sister gave Dragon a cookie for his good behavior before Gray lifted him down.

  “Handsome.”

  “That he is. Diana and Dasher turned out quite good-looking, too, but with a better temperament in the field. Dragon is hard-headed when hunting, and yet such a love the rest of the time.”

  “My nose is the best. I get sick of Cora double-checking everything. I don’t care if she is the strike hound and the head bitch” Dragon explained himself.

  “Kennel up.” Sister pointed to the sick bay kennel, a series of separate pens with cozy boxes off the med room. Each of these rooms had a small outside run that could be shut off. Each room contained its own wall heater, high on the wall so the hound couldn’t get on its hind legs to chew it. Since hounds curl up together in cold weather, they are able to keep warm; but a hound alone could use a little help in winter, especially if he or she has been injured or isn’t feeling well.

  Dragon obediently walked into his place. Sister closed the door behind him, dropping the latch. The other two hounds were already asleep in their pens.

 
; Fortunately, none of these hounds had suffered severe wounds. They’d most likely be back hunting within a week. If the wounds didn’t close up to Sister’s satisfaction, she’d keep the hound out of hunting, although not out of hound walk. No point in reopening wounds and delaying healing, but if a hound can be exercised, that’s good for him mentally. If the animal wasn’t ready to rejoin the pack, Sister would hand walk him. Each of these hounds pulled his weight in the pack, so she wanted them up and running.