Filled with Irish charm, Jim remarked, “Doctor, I think you’re full up in every department.”
Tootie rejoined Sister. “Hope kept her cool when Mo dissed her. He’s really disgusting.”
“That he is.”
Much of being a master involves social duties. Sister was dog tired and ready to bite, although the Blanton’s had somewhat improved her spirits. Still, she just wanted to go to her room at Shaker Village and go to bed.
Some masters, usually those who hunt hounds or whip in, can’t be very social since their hound duties come first. Sister, being field master, naturally tended to the people. Now that she had a joint master, Dr. Walter Lungrun, they could share social obligations. The club was growing, and Sister had realized two years ago that she just couldn’t go it alone as master. Walter, on call, couldn’t come to this hound show, but he’d arranged his schedule so he could go to the Bryn Mawr Hound Show in Radnor, Pennsylvania, on the first Saturday in June, even though he wouldn’t be taking hounds. Walter would miss the Virginia Hound Show but Sister would be there.
Friends passed and repassed as Sister, poised on the hay bale, indulged in her favorite topic, hounds and hunting. It was everyone else’s main interest, too.
Encouraged by Sister, Tootie introduced herself to Leslie, who took her under her wing, introducing the young beauty to others. Tootie, senses alert, paid careful attention to everyone and everything in hopes of gleaning information.
Grant Fuller, florid, portly, and rich as Croesus, dropped down next to Sister. “Don’t have the stamina I used to have.”
She studied his Buddha belly and smiled. “You’re doing just fine.”
“That’s eating, not partying.” He smiled back. “How you doing?”
“Good. Yourself ?”
“Busy. I shouldn’t complain. Business is booming. Doesn’t leave much time for other pursuits. When I was young, it was wine, women, and song. Now it’s bourbon and steak.”
The crackle of bugs on the scattered bug lights sounded like tiny punctuation marks to their conversation.
“I heard you’ve opened new processing plants.”
This pleased him. “Expanded out of the Mid-America. Just opened a brand-new one in Kansas and am finishing one in southern Ohio. You know, making a great product isn’t the hard part, the hard part is distribution.”
“And?” She enjoyed learning about other people’s businesses. Her late husband had taught her to appreciate a number of interests beyond her own favorite subjects: hounds, horses, and geology.
“Making inroads. In fact, I’m working on Augusta Co-op in your neck of the woods.”
Augusta Co-op and Southern States were the two farm equipment and feed stores in Virginia, and neither one was part of a huge chain.
“Good for you.” She paused. “You’ve worked hard and you hit the market at the right time. People are spending billions on their pets.”
“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I inherited the family business, one large feed store and two grain silos.” He grinned. “Took us four generations to get that far. Yankees delayed our progress.” He winked.
She laughed. “The song of the South. But hey, you could have stayed with that one big old feed store.”
Grant puffed out his chest slightly. “Root, hog, or die.” Then he burst out laughing. “I rooted a lot. But you know, if a person is going to be successful, whether it’s Judge Baker, that pretty young vet”—he nodded in Hope’s direction—“or you, you got to keep up with the times. Once I saw the handwriting on the wall for slaughterhouses, I sold them off and concentrated on dog and cat food.”
“Most slaughterhouses comply with government rules and constant visits for inspection. However, the public perception is one of horror, so you were wise, really,” Sister said.
“People want to eat meat, but they don’t want to know how it gets to the table.” He shrugged. “Ours is a nation where people put their heads in the sand. We should replace the eagle as our national symbol with an ostrich.”
“True enough.”
He lowered his voice. “Sister, I’ll tell you something: chicken, beef, lamb, pork—all loaded. I mean, loaded with hormones. Like I said, I backed out of all that in the mid-nineties.”
“But don’t you still have to deal with the slaughterhouses?”
A thin sheen of sweat shone on his cheeks and forehead in the humid air, despite the coolness of evening coming on. “Might surprise you to know that, yes, I do use chicken byproducts and beef, but the real source of protein is chicken feathers.”
“What?”
“We pick them up from the slaughterhouses by the trailer truckload, grind them, and pulp them. Boy, will that put a shine on a hound’s coat. I’ll toss a couple of bags in your trailer tomorrow. You pull out a hound that needs special care, someone a little light, and just see what happens in two weeks’ time.”
“Why, thank you, Grant. I’d be happy to try. What’s the protein content?”
“I create three levels, based on activity, obviously. Let me give you three bags of the twenty-eight percent and three of the twenty-one. You just try it.” He paused dramatically. “And I’ll make you a promise. If you like the high-tech Hunter’s Friend—the name was my wife’s idea—I’ll sell it to you for less per ton than anyone you do business with, even if I don’t get the distribution deal with Augusta Co-op.”
“That’s very generous.”
He put his hands behind him on the straw bale to lean back a little. “Not so generous. You’re the queen of foxhunting. If you like my product—well, others will, too.”
“You flatter me.”
He shook his head. “No. Anyway, we’re both Dixie brats. You’ve never made a fuss about your status, which is just as it should be. You know what my momma used to say?”
“I’m waiting.”
“People who brag have to.”
She let out a peal of laughter. “Hits the nail on the head.”
“Take Mo Schneider. Can’t believe they haven’t run that braggart windbag out of Arkansas. If there’s a state that should recognize hot air, it’s that one.” He enjoyed her company but knew he had to make the rounds. “Hate to leave you, but I need to do the shake-and-howdy.”
Three loud blasts on the horn, notes signaling Come to me, sounded.
As Grant left, Sister wondered if Giorgio had heard Shaker blowing those notes when the hounds picked up scent. Sensitive, young, the beautiful boy would be so upset by not being able to reach Shaker. She wanted to cry because she knew how confused Giorgio must be. She prayed he wasn’t chained. Chaining a dog infuriated her.
The horn-blowing contest, now starting, delighted everyone as the huntsmen, directed by the judges, began to perform various hound calls.
Sister noticed Mo, horn in his back pocket, back at the bar for another vodka. He ambled toward the lineup of men holding their horns; no lady huntsman was there to compete, although there are many these days.
Then Fonz brushed by his boss, jostled by another fellow, and Mo threw his vodka in Fonz’s weather-beaten face.
Startled, Fonz stepped backward. Sister watched as the short, lean man carefully wiped the vodka off his face without tasting any of it. She thought it a cruel thing for Mo Schneider to do, throwing liquor at an ex-drunk, but she expected no better from him.
Later, that image of Fonz trying not to lick his lips would come back to her.
CHAPTER 3
Two rectangular rings set off with roped cordons marked the areas where the foxhounds, beagles, and bassets would be judged. Woodford had considered three rings but decided that if they ran the show like clockwork they could keep it intimate.
Quite a few fabulous hunts had driven to Harrodsburg, Kentucky, to be part of the show: Keswick, Longreen, and Beechgrove from Tennessee; Mooreland from Alabama; Midland from outside Columbus, Georgia; Why Worry Hounds from South Carolina; London Hunt from Ontario, Canada; Iroquois from nearby Lexington; Mission Valley and Coal Val
ley, both from Kansas; and Rosetree from York, Pennsylvania, all brought hounds.
O.J. checked her program, then her watch. One of her joint masters, Robbie Lyons, had been rushed to the hospital a scant two weeks ago for heart surgery, so he could only look on; the other master, Sam Adams, was working twice as hard to cover for him. As Woodford Hounds, founded in 1981, abounded with hardworking helpful people, the two healthy masters pulled it off—up to the start of the show, at least.
They’d wisely put the rings under the old trees. Across the narrow farm road on the house side they’d thrown up a large tent where food would be served later. The layout utilized the best features of the site and kept the action close together. Occasionally at hound shows the different rings are set so far apart that a spectator will have to huff and puff, running to catch the action.
Masters, huntsmen, and onlookers eagerly awaited the start of the first class: Single Dog Unentered (dog hound means a male hound). Part of the excitement involved the judges. Chris Ryan, MFH, huntsman of the famous Scarteen pack in Ireland, had been flown over. He would be scrutinizing the English and Crossbred hounds. Tommy Lee Jones, huntsman of Casanova Hunt, the idol of many a young and not-so-young huntsman, would judge the American and Penn-Marydel hounds. Stanley D. Petter, Jr., would judge beagles and bassets. His grasp of conformation was so refined he was often consulted by devotees of the sport.
Woodford Hounds certainly assembled extraordinary judges, which naturally brought in the top competitors. People want their hounds to be seen by the best eyes. Just watching how a class is pinned is instructive. No one likes to be dismissed early from a class, but if one can take it in stride, there’s much to gain from the experience.
Hope stopped by the trailer. “Good luck, you-all. I’ve got to head back, but give me a full report when you get home.”
Sister thanked her, wishing her a safe trip. From Shaker Village to Hope’s clinic was a seven-and-a-half-hour drive.
Sister handed Grady, an unentered dog hound, Giorgio’s littermate,to Tootie. He had his mother’s gorgeous head and powerful shoulders. His front legs from the knee downward turned in slightly, a conformation flaw. Small though it was, in this type of competition it would probably keep him from the ribbons. This fall would be his first season, and Sister, Shaker, and their whippers-in had high hopes for theG litter. Hounds are typically named according to the first letter of their mother’s name. Giorgio was out of a gyp named Greta, drafted from Middleburg, and she’d been bred to Dasher, a solid hound full of good old Virginia blood, which is to say, Bywaters. The other great Virginia bloodline, Skinker, filled the kennels of Orange County Hunt, Casanova, and others.
Many of the spectators knew at least a bit of this, but their main focus was on the present crop of hounds and judges. The ladies particularly liked watching the judges. Tommy Lee Jones, silver-haired, kind, and good-natured, could turn a girl’s head. Chris Ryan, wiry, rugged, bursting with energy and with that charm only the Irish possess, also dazzled. Stanley Petter, turnout crisp, treated ladies with respect, so he, too, was always in demand. In fact, some women never got around to looking at the hounds.
Each ring had a steward, a person responsible for unfastening the cordon so hounds and handlers could enter and exit. The steward, ascertaining the judges’ results, would deliver them to the official ringside if that was necessary. A good steward is critical to a well-run hound show, for if a problem does occur in the ring—say, a dogfight—it is the steward’s responsibility to attend to it, not the judges. As a judge, Barry Baker had the quiet authority and experience necessary for a good steward. Today he would need it.
Tootie, in a white kennel coat starched to perfection, a black hunt cap, ribbons up since she wasn’t staff, made both Sister and Shaker grin. Apart from appreciating proper turnout, they both loved getting young people involved with hounds.
O.J., joining Sister Jane, remarked, “I’m so glad to see you’re letting a junior handle the hound.”
“She could go in the junior class but she’s good, O.J., and I don’t see any reason for her not to go up against the adults. We know”—Sister Jane nodded toward Shaker on her other side—“that Grady toes in. He’s not going to get pinned. You find that toe-in a lot with the old Bywaters blood.”
“It was the fashion in the late forties and fifties,” O.J. commented. “ ’Course we weren’t on the ground there,” she joked.
“They thought it would give the hound better purchase; I doubt if they were right,” Sister replied. “Maybe you weren’t on the ground then, but you know I was. Glad of it, too. More country people. People in general were more realistic.”
Keswick Hunt had three hounds in the class, shown by the huntsman, Tony Gammell, and his wife, Whitney. Claudia Lynn, wife of Andy Lynn, one of the Keswick masters, showed the third hound. Charlotte Tieken, the other Keswick master, was chained to her desk, working. No show for her this time.
Far from being pushy or crassly competitive, all three Keswick people beamed at Tootie when she came into the ring. “You look the very part,” Tony said, his lovely Irish lilt lightening Tootie’s stride.
Longreen Foxhounds near Germantown, Tennessee, the other hunt with hounds in the ring, were also cordial to Jefferson Hunt, though the camaraderie didn’t come close to Jefferson’s relationship with Keswick, another Tennessee hunt. Everyone liked seeing a young person in the ring.
Tommy Lee asked them to walk around, then reverse. He studied each hound. Chris Ryan, the Irish judge, though not judging the American hounds, keenly watched the proceedings, as did the two hundred spectators.
Tootie lost her nervousness, partly because Grady, ham that he was, loved being the center of attention. Sister was right. Grady received no ribbon because of his toeing in. While not pronounced, it was at variance with the clean, straight limbs of Keswick Kiely, who took first, followed by his littermate, Kaiser, who snagged the red ribbon.
Tommy Jones placed his hand on Tootie’s shoulder as she waited to go out of the ring. “You’re doing a good job, and that’s a lovely hound. Just toes in a tad.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” She smiled broadly because she hadn’t thought so august a huntsman would even notice her.
Of course he would. He didn’t think he was august, which was part of his appeal.
The morning turned sultry. Still, the classes ran like clockwork. People shifted between the foxhound ring and the beagle and basset ring, depending on who was showing and being shown.
Too tie and Shaker showed hounds in the couples classes, which Tootie loved. Couples classes almost always had hounds who were closely matched littermates. Watching the pairs move together on and off lead was a special treat.
Sister went in the ring for Class 5, showing Dragon and Dasher, racy tricolor American hounds. The boys were on. They snared a second, which pleased both hounds and humans.
Mo Schneider hadn’t received one ribbon for his hounds. He showed them with his whipper-in, Fonz Riley. The two men wore kennel coats and derbies, the proper headgear for showing English hounds. Mo had English, Crossbred, American, and Penn-Marydel, thinking to cover all the bases. Didn’t work. Fonz handled the hounds much better than the master, but Mo’s ego was in a gaseous state, ever expanding. The humidity and the lack of ribbons began to tell on him. Judge Baker, wearing a tan sport coat and tie in the ring as steward, clearly felt the humidity, as did everyone else. Those starched kennel coats felt like sweat suits. That’s hound shows. No point in bitching and moaning.
The lunch break arrived in the nick of time. Ice-cold drinks helped restore bodies and spirits. Mary Pierson, a Woodford member, guided folks toward the tent. The food, perfect for a now-sweltering day, also helped.
Grant Fuller, already tired from walking back and forth from trailer to ring, headed toward the drinks.
Mo Schneider pushed his way toward O.J. to sit next to her. Given that he wasn’t invited, she bore him with good grace. O.J.’s table had been organized before with the ide
a of giving the judges a respite.
Sister Jane just winked at O.J. when Mo took her place. She repaired to the next table to sit with Shaker and Tootie where the diminutive Woodford member Louise Kelly, black-eyed, black-haired, entertained everyone with her stories.
“You don’t know one end of a hound from another.” Mo’s voice rose as he berated Chris Ryan.
Face reddening, Chris simply replied, “There’s always another day for your hound.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mo screeched, now pointing his finger at Tommy Lee. “It’s the old boys’ club. Always is.”
O.J. spoke sternly. “Mo, this has been a wonderful show, and more is to come. Don’t spoil it.”
“You shut up. You’re part of the old boys’ club, too.”
This frosted Sister Jane, who had ample reason to loathe Mo. She stood up. “Mo, you quite forget yourself.”
His retort was, “I’d rather forget you.”
She doubled her fist, moving toward him. Shaker knocked over his chair getting up to restrain his master. Sister rarely lost her temper but when she did, watch out.
Tommy Lee Jones, Judge Baker at table three, and Tony Gammell all stood. From behind Mo came Carl Matacola. All the men were strong, with Tommy Lee being the most formidable.
Judge Baker caused Mo to turn from Sister. “We don’t speak to ladies this way. You’re excused.”
“I’m what?” His eyes bugged out of his head.
“Get out.” Judge Baker simplified his request.
“Best you go,” Tony reiterated. “You’ve insulted two masters, two lovely ladies.”
Whitney, Tony’s wife, looked on, proud of her husband’s demeanor but worried that he would take a shot at the now frothing Mo. It wouldn’t do for Tony to break his hand, with so much work to be done this summer.
James Keogh, a strapping six-foot-four-inch Irishman and Woodford whipper-in, who’d been outside the tent, hurried in, ready to help drag Mo out. He wanted to make sure that Robbie Lyons didn’t try to do it because his chest was still full of stitches from the heart surgery.
Hounded to Death Page 4