Animal Magnetism

by Rita Mae Brown

  A word of caution here: You can read perfectly clean X-rays and the horse can be dead lame the next day. On the other hand, you can read X-rays that horsemen say have “changes” and learn an important thing or two. You might see the beginning of navicular or other conditions affecting the hoof or the bones just above it. Think of the horse’s hoof area as somewhat analogous to the bones in your wrist. Not a perfect parallel, but it will give you an idea. When a horse jumps, the pressure per square inch on the foreleg and those bones is tremendous. It is when you jump, too.

  This fellow was ten and he had no name, or none that anyone could remember. I called him Major and I owe him a great deal. For one thing, he tolerated Baby Jesus, even neighing to her. She’d saunter (Baby rarely walked—it was always the Mae West saunter) to the fence line, where she’d climb a post and wait for Major to trot over to her. Then she’d rub against his face. That hateful cat just loved Major. It was mutual. They had the longest chats. I’d see them together when I went in to muck the stalls, and when I was finished, forty-five minutes later (I have a good speedy system plus the good stall floor helped), I’d find them in the same spot, still thrilled silly with each other’s company. Meanwhile, the ever-growing India stayed underfoot. What a sweet, sweet dog.

  My boarders paid on time. They rode around the farm and loaded up their horses to foxhunt, usually with Farmington Hunt, though one boarder hunted with Keswick. Albemarle County is one of the few counties in America to host two foxhunts, both very good and therefore very competitive with each other. Each pushes the other onward and upward. As Keswick was founded in 1886 it can look upon Farmington, founded in 1929, as an upstart. Each club has had wonderful masters, and a few who should have stayed in bed. And each club has a well-mounted first flight with people who can ride and ride hard.

  I’d wistfully watch my boarders drive off. I was dying to hunt and I knew Major could do it because he had the jumping gene. I needed a lot more work than he did. Still do. One must always keep learning, keep the legs strong and the hands soft.

  To hunt I’d need a truck, at least a three-quarter-ton, a trailer, and the money to pay for the gas. My vehicle was an old red Toyota truck that rattled the fillings right out of your head. It was distinctive since my neighbor’s goat had once feasted on the interior.

  One of my boarders, a giant fellow with a booming voice, Dr. Jimmy Turner, invited me to hunt with him and his wife, Alice. They loaded up Major, hauled me to a Farmington fixture—a fixture is a specific place where one hunts; a fortunate club has many fixtures—and Jimmy being Jimmy, he paid my cap fee, fussing terribly when I attempted to repay him. I rode second flight, fearing I’d make a fool of myself in first flight. Plus, when first flight contains people like Ellie Wood Keith Baxter, who won the Medal McClay in 1937 and also won at Madison Square Garden before World War II and again after, I had good reason to be scared. Eventually I moved up and, of course, provided hilarity for all.

  Major took care of me. I’m much more of an athlete than a rider. I’d never had a riding lesson but I had balance. I didn’t care how stupid I looked or how ugly my horse: I was in heaven. A few people deigned to nod toward me. Pat Butterfield, now Master of Foxhounds there, who was my high school friend, and his wife, Kay (another hell of a horseman), Jane Fogelman, and Gloria Fennell all welcomed me.

  My boarders paid my horse expenses and a bit of the mortgage; the farm wasn’t very expensive. But I just couldn’t swing the truck, the trailer, and Farmington’s annual fees. All far beyond what I could do. I had no job. I’d come back with what I’d saved from Hollywood, which was a lot since I lived close to the bone out there, investing my earnings in real estate, which paid off.

  Here I was, thirty-one, at the prime of my life, I thought (wrong—my prime is right now, and I’m not kidding), watching every penny, working from sunup to long after sundown. Loved that. Can’t work outside enough. I had a quarter-acre garden full of sweet corn, white corn, asparagus, you name it. I thought I’d earn a little off the crops, and did. The asparagus was snapped up before I could even cart it to the outdoor market.

  Still.

  Baby Jesus suggested I write another novel. Something with sex and violence. I did. High Hearts, set during the War Between the States. Enough money came in that I could finally buy a truck and trailer. I met Art Bushey, the Ford dealer, who was, and still is, crazy (in a good way). I loved him, of course. Art made sure that that truck could pull a house off its foundations. I bought a dually instead of a three-quarter-ton truck on his advice. He was right as rain. That extra set of wheels can save your hindquarters, and your horse’s, too, should you drop a wheel over the edge of an uneven road. Kept the old Toyota since I’d have gotten only five hundred dollars in trade. That truck breathed its last when 300,000 clicked over on the odometer. And it wasn’t the engine that died. The body just rusted out. Japanese steel is better now. Used to be cheap crap.

  My beloved Major did not ride in the two-horse gooseneck trailer until I could back up with no problems and take a tight turn. Finally, I loaded him up and off we trundled to another FHC hunt. Most hunts allow three caps a year. This was my second. What a corker. Second flight was led by Dr. Herbert Jones. This was the first time I saw the man who was to become my best friend, my moral compass, my second skin. Foxfield was the fixture. What a glorious day, filled with crisp, long runs. Herb put us in the right place every time. I’ve never seen so many foxes or a man so commanding without appearing to command. Herb had women fall over him throughout his life, even when he ran to fat (which I so kindly pointed out to him daily). I joined “Herbie’s Harem.”

  Major seemed amused by all this. He loved hunting. His ears swiveled to capture the hounds’ voices, the horn. He always saw the fox before I did. If I bobbled, he managed to shift to that side.

  Jimmy Turner’s youngest teenage daughter, Doodles, started giving me lessons. Thank God. And when she went back to high school, I landed on Muffin Barnes’s doorstep at Gloria Fennell’s barn. Poor Muffin. She did her best, and over time it paid off. I have the Barnes leg. She gives you a really strong, good leg and it has saved my nether regions on countless occasions.

  Money concerns eased up. Hollywood is a strange place. If you’re available, they don’t want you. Remove yourself and everyone wants you. I’d fly out, pick up a movie of the week to write, fly home, and then deliver it. Meanwhile, my novels would climb onto that “New York Times Extended Best-Seller List.”

  Major now had everything a horse could want. Beautiful English leather tack, a bridle with a sewn-in bit, a Baker blanket, a cooler, carrots, peppermint candies (his fave).

  India and Major got along fine, but Baby Jesus was the horse’s boon companion. Sometimes as I’d walk up toward the house she’d linger, coming up with the fireflies. He’d nicker goodnight.

  This friendship deepened. But Baby had years on her, and at eighteen her health took a turn for the worse. I would carry her down for her sessions with Major. He knew, of course, and he’d place his muzzle on her flank but wouldn’t push. The day came when I knew I’d have to put her down, and the most wonderful small animal vet, Chuck Wood, actually drove out to my farm so she wouldn’t have to be frightened by the drive or the smells of his office. What a kind man. She did not leave this earth peacefully, I might add. Tyrannical to the end. When Chuck came through the kitchen door she tried to escape, and then she was not easily held. She so wanted to live, but her systems were shutting down. The greater cruelty would have been to pump her up with steroids or whatever for a day or two. It really was time.

  That cat loved me when I lived on five dollars a week in New York City, when we slept rolled up in blankets with my old pea jacket thrown over us for extra warmth. She now sits on the top left shelf by the fireplace in my workroom in a Thai funerary urn in the shape of a red cat. When I go down, Baby is going with me. We’ll be commingled ashes.

  I thought about taking the body to Major so he could smell her but decided against it. He watch
ed as I buried her under the weeping cherry tree. He knew anyway. When I moved to the big farm where I now live I disinterred her and had what was left cremated.

  How he mourned. He dropped weight. His eyes lost their luster. I did my best to keep him in shape, and God bless him, he did what I asked. Finally, I turned him out to heal in his own time.

  A month after Baby Jesus died, a pregnant stray wound up in the barn. The result: a pregnant stray now enjoyed the benefits of health care and proper nutrition. Four beautiful kittens came into this world. I kept all of them.

  I’d made a whelping box in the tack room. The mother cat wasn’t suited for house life. I could catch her, with difficulty, but she wanted to be in the barn. One day I opened the door to Major’s stall after he’d walked in from his back door. He stepped out, stopped, opened his nostrils wide, then walked to the tack room. He ducked his head inside. The kittens, eyes now open, were wobbly. The mother wasn’t at all sure about this big boy. She was transfixed. Major didn’t move. So I just worked around him, then put him back.

  He picked up weight. He always wanted to visit the kittens, and as they grew older, out they tumbled into the center aisle. Once they turned eight weeks old I brought them up to the house. India knew her place where cats were concerned. No problems there, plus they knew one another from barn visits.

  Every morning, the kittens would follow me back down to the barn. The mother cat struck up a friendship with Major. He was getting a few years on him, too, but he came back strong, and when fall rolled around, we applied for membership at Farmington. There is a trial period. We both passed.

  Love does work miracles. It’s such a hackneyed thing to say but it’s true. Once people experience it, they no longer snicker behind their hand or roll their eyes that one could be so sentimental.

  Pretty is as pretty does. Major took care of me. He taught me, as each of my animals does in one form or another, the power of love. But he also taught me the power of birth and rebirth. The kittens brought him back to life.

  Should you be reading this, if you’ve gone through a deep loss, be patient. Like Major, you’ll be reborn. Some of your friends may not understand if the love of an animal pulls you through or brings you back to life, but I do. And Major would, too.

  Here I’m riding Silver Investor, hounds packing in to first cast. I’m doing what I love most in the world, hunting my hounds on a good horse. Photo by Cynthia Green Photography.

  The Thrill of the Hunt

  A life well lived is one filled with pleasures. Troubles and pain find each of us, and it’s up to us to find our own delights. For me, these exist in nature. The Metropolitan Museum of Art delivers pleasure for a time, and the same is true of the theater. But eventually the crowds begin to wear on me.

  H. L. Mencken defined Puritanism as “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” Good description. That type of personality exists all over the globe among humankind. Animals aren’t that stupid. Unfortunately, in some parts of England and the United States north of the Mason-Dixon Line, Puritan qualities—prudence, thrift, sobriety—are valued above other fine attributes. The Protestant work ethic is hallowed. Poor sods.

  Apart from those who have inherited wealth (a curse as well as a blessing), we all must work. I suppose we make a virtue of necessity. For me, it’s necessity. I like my work but I like hunting better. I feel most alive outside, flying along or walking along studying the brush for tufts of fur, small spirals of feathers, scat. Foxhunting is the grand passion of my life.

  Again, Americans don’t kill the fox. If a fox is old or sick, yes, it is dispatched, but in the last seventeen years, I’ve had that happen three times. The English kill. Their agricultural practices differ from ours and their enclosure laws have created a nation of lovely squares and rectangles. Not so here. Cultivation over large areas came late to our part of the world—no Roman invasions to begin the process over two thousand years ago. Good news for wild creatures, especially the fox. There are dens in which to disappear, fallen logs to jump up on and lift one’s scent, the dens of other animals to pop into in a pinch. And you can always hop in the back of a station wagon, which I saw a fox do in the late 1980s when a lady had the tailgate of her Wagoneer down. Fox hopped right in as she motored slowly away.

  Hunting sharpens my senses, for I must use each of them. The people who come out in all weather add spice to the process. The hunt field isn’t a place for wimps. Foxhunters are throwbacks—another reason why I love them. Physical prowess keeps you in one piece. Sooner or later you’ll break a bone but they heal fast enough. I’ve ridden with broken ribs, separated ribs, broken nose, torn hands. Your adrenaline spikes so high you know you’re hurt but you don’t really feel it until later. I did feel it when a horse went over on me, but I crawled out from under, thank you, Jesus.

  The acceptance of risk fades from our world. People want guarantees. Your government lies to you, brokerage houses lie to you, insurance companies lie to you. They tell you they’ll remove or reduce the risk. Impossible. What government can and does do is redistribute the pain depending upon who is in power.

  Foxhunters accept risk. I won’t go so far as to say we court it like a bungee jumper.

  The images you see of foxhunting usually involve horses at a gallop, people on their backs in varying states of grace, and a lovely pack of hounds forward. In reality, you often walk or trot for an hour or more, depending on conditions, before you move on. You can smell the earth if it’s not frozen, the leaves on the ground as they pulverize, the scent of other animals if your nose is good. Up in the sky you’ll see sundogs glinting. Once a group of us were walking back from a long hunt in early March and we caught a rare sight. Slashes of turquoise crossed the sky at one in the afternoon. It was as if one of the gods had taken a crayon and marked up the heavens. The turquoise was so vivid it stood out against a backdrop of robin’s egg blue and the white clouds. Other times you’ll cast your eyes west, sun on your face, to see gunmetal gray clouds piling up behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. A thin cloud cover soon obscures the sun. Swirls and streams of snow slide down the eastern slope of those fabled mountains. In ten to twenty minutes, depending on the speed of the clouds, the snow will fall on my farm. The fox knows that the snow is coming long before you or I see the clouds. By the time we do, she is snug in her den, tail curled over that black nose.

  Everyone needs a passion, something that won’t bring you money, something on which to spend a bit of money, something sublimely impractical, capable of stirring your emotions. Watching your favorite football team can stir your emotions, but you are sitting on your can. Better to keep moving. For some it’s golf. For others it’s gardening.

  Such a passion often brings people to good deeds. For instance, many foxhunters are involved in animal rescue, including horses, which are difficult to place and expensive to bring back to health. But we do it because those wonderful animals allow us to do what we love.

  Deer hunters all over America contribute to organizations like Hunters for the Hungry. Somehow, our passions do lead us, most of us, to a form of giving. Or teaching young people. If those of us who farm and hunt don’t pass on our skills they’ll be lost by the middle of the twenty-first century. For me, this is a terrifying thought.

  We are medium-size predators. Farming is perhaps ten thousand years old, maybe a bit older in some parts of the world, much younger in others. We survived by hunting. We learned to cooperate through hunting. To hunt is to be human. Remove this and slowly you destroy the human animal. Look at what has happened to certain breeds of dogs in the show world. There is no way they can perform the functions for which they were first bred. The AKC has awakened to this threat, as have many of the breed organizations. Extinction, or the diminishing of some wonderful, irreplaceable species, can and will happen if we don’t wake up.

  Foxhunting has taught me to cooperate with my horse, the hounds, and other humans. It has also forced me to confront the dangers of untrammeled development.
Once concrete is laid over the corn you won’t eat from those acres again and neither will any other life form. From the 1950s onward, suburbanization has gobbled up productive land, created traffic problems, and forced taxes to be raised to pay for services to those developments. I’m opposed to environmentally unsound development.

  Foxes, being omnivorous, can and do live in cities. More live in the suburbs. The fox and I, however, flourish in the country. I have noticed an affinity for churchyards for both of us.

  I don’t think animals have an impulse toward religion, yet they appear to have affiliations. There’s a fox in Nelson County, Virginia, who is a careless Protestant. The above-mentioned fox keeps a den near Trinity Episcopal Church, displaying little interest in the service or parishioners. However, only a mile down the road reposes the small, abandoned, but lovely St. Mary’s Chapel. A succession of gray foxes have lived there for the last seventeen years, probably longer. As I am directly across the road about twice a month from October to March, I have had occasion to observe their practices. The Hollands, owners of Oak Ridge, have not been able to purchase the chapel, which was once a part of the estate. It sits exposed. John Holland does his best to protect it. Mr. Tyree, former manager of Oak Ridge, now in his high eighties, does his best, too. But out from under John and Rhonda Holland’s protective umbrella one can only expect so much, and occasionally the door will be forced open. When times are bad, as they now are, homeless people have sought shelter there. No heat—but it is a roof over your head. Heather Goodwin, the Hollands’ oldest daughter, helps run the estate. I know preservation of the church concerns her and her husband, too.