Animal Magnetism

by Rita Mae Brown

  If a hound can’t get along in my pack, I remove it to a run where it stays alone, or with a few other hounds it does get along with. What’s fascinating is that that same malcontent can still hunt well with the pack. It’s the living together that doesn’t work so well.

  A dog will whine if it’s upset or needs something, but no animal whines in the manner of a human. It’s deeply boring when a woman does it and beyond the pale when a man does it. Patriarchy brings extra benefits, extra burdens. You want the benefits, accept the burdens. The problem with pushing down any segment of the population based on irrational criteria, e.g., color, gender, sexuality, is you must spend so much energy keeping an excluded group in its place. When the conquest is fresh, that energy takes the form of military or police. Over the centuries, elaborate ideologies were created to prove why the untermenschen are untermenschen. For some reason, this makes the top dog feel so much better about himself. The tragedy is that the oppressed so often internalize the definition of themselves as not as good as the top dog.

  In real life a top dog in the kennels needs no such recourse. He or she is simply top dog—and often it is a bitch because the boys’ minds wander, whereas the girls’ minds focus like lasers. The top dog has earned his or her position through physical power and intelligence (there are no dumb top dogs) and willpower. Once every other dog or hound in the pack realizes the top dog will enforce her or his will, they fall in line. Calm ensues. Harmony reigns.

  The horses behave in a similar manner. They aren’t as quick to punish a horse who doesn’t do what I ask, but, boy, will they nail one who doesn’t do what they ask. What I notice about the horses is that if some are being naughty, the others distance themselves. When I walk into the paddock they look at me as if to say, “Jerks. Those boys are such jerks.” If a horse is naughty to them, they usually kick him.

  As a human, I don’t always fathom the deep layers of responsibility, social interaction, and blood ties among humans. I try, but much is hidden and much is lost. What we are is a result of what happened many generations ago. A big moment, 1066. Not only did the English language change, the world changed. How could William the Conqueror know that his invasion gave those island peoples the last tool they needed to dominate the world? The dissolution of the monasteries during the reign of Henry VIII provided another great turning point. English-speaking people were cut off from Rome. If you didn’t accept it, you were dead. It freed us intellectually.

  Animals may have these turning points, but I expect they are evolutionary. As with us, much of the social or pack history is lost.

  Even the physical package changes. Food is good; animals grow larger. Food is scarce, they shrink, become thin. More light and warmth, less hair. Each of us as an individual and as a member of our pack responds to the environment.

  Humans believe they have a huge impact on nature. They do, but so do many other species, the beaver being an obvious example. The pine beetle or the boll weevil also changed the land. Every living thing leaves some mark, for good or for ill. The tricky part is that what’s good in 1066 may not be good in 2010.

  What remains constant are the great virtues of love, courage, compassion, and righteous action. Animals are capable of all of these virtues, as well as their opposites.

  Some of you might balk at the idea of animals feeling compassion. If you sit in a chair and cry, doesn’t your cat or dog come to comfort you? Mine do. I rarely cry but they know when I’m sad. Isn’t that compassion? Once I came upon a dog that had been hit by a car. Its canine companion stayed there in the middle of the road to comfort its friend. No cellphone then so I put out flares (a good thing to keep on hand) and drove miles to a gas station. First I called the sheriff’s department, since they’d respond the quickest to a potential car accident. As it was cold and rainy, the potential for an accident was real. That’s why I set out the flares. An injured dog in the middle of the road could be dangerous for anyone driving on that road. Next I called Animal Control.

  Those public servants did their job. The dogs were rescued. The hit dog didn’t make it, but the rescuers did find the owner of the companion, who knew the owner of the deceased dog.

  Compassion. Perhaps animals are further along than we are. A dog doesn’t look at another dog and say, “I hate collies, I don’t like their coats. They spend too much time with sheep, and they worship idols in the shape of collies.” So I’d have to say they have more tolerance as well as compassion. They won’t tolerate wrongdoing, but a dog, cat, or horse could care less if its buddy is chestnut, bay, gray, or pinto.

  Each of my house dogs has a unique personality and a sense of independence. I encourage this, as long as it doesn’t cause harm to the animal or to the rest of my household. Take Godzilla, the fat black-and-white Jack Russell. Sixteen years ago, she was given to me by my dear friend Joan Hamilton. Naturally everyone loved her. She considered it her due.

  When Godzilla was eleven, Judy Pastore moved here from Los Angeles. After eight months of looking around, she found a house we all call “The Yellow Teacup” as it abuts my land, Tea-Time Farm.

  Judy, being girly, transformed this place into one of great charm. Her pets have their own fenced-in yard with a big house in the back with tile floors. It’s big enough for a person to inhabit. The dogs sleep in special beds, play with an abundance of toys, and just generally loll about in a canine paradise.

  Godzilla has a habit of jumping into vehicles. People would visit me and a half hour after they left, I would receive a phone call. A strange noise alerted them while driving. The next thing they knew, Godzilla had leaped over the center console right into their laps. Usually I’d go pick her up. Sometimes, if the individual was a hunt club member, Godzilla would stay with them for two days, to be returned at the next hunt. In this way she acquired many treats. People thought the poor dear would be longing for home. The poor dear longed to be the center of attention. She was, and still is.

  As Judy stayed here while working on her house, Godzilla would ride over with her for daily inspections. The little dog liked what she saw, recognizing this house as being quite superior to the one where she was currently quartered.

  When Judy finally moved, Godzilla would again ride with her and even spend the night. One evening I couldn’t find her. She had walked from my house to Judy’s, a distance of perhaps a mile, some of it on the two-lane paved highway. She was returned the following morning, only to repeat her journey that evening.

  My own dog dumped me.

  You should see how she lives. I mean, I take good care of my dogs; I love them. They have toys, horses to play with, plenty of food. But they do not have a small palace to call their own. Godzilla has a special place in the palace, plus a special place in Judy’s beautiful kitchen, a far cry from mine where only one burner works on the stove. I really do mean to buy a new one, but domestic needs take a far second place to farm needs, e.g., fencing, overseeing. I need a wife or a husband who can do such things. But given that my own dog left me, I know the chances of a human coming on board are next to nothing.

  This dog is so spoiled, she even has her own wardrobe. Worse, she walks into my house and plops down so the other dogs see her. When she’s had enough attention she leaves. Judy keeps her horses here, so Godzilla makes daily appearances. And appearances they are. Never have I met such a vain animal. Godzilla feels that every toy in my house is also hers. Thank God she can’t get her paws on my checkbook.

  As soon as she sails through my front door or enters via the dog door she comes and finds me, expecting lavish love. What’s a mother to do?

  Physical courage is obvious in any species. Emotional or intellectual courage—well, we know it when we see it but it’s harder to pin down.

  Physical courage often brings admiration, even rewards. Emotional and intellectual courage usually brings pain, since it often involves bucking the system. Decades or even centuries later, the individual may receive acclaim.

  R.C., my large Doberman, may have had int
ellectual and emotional courage, but those qualities eluded me. Smart as he was, he couldn’t read, nor did he involve himself in a complicated social life. Part of the house pack, the number-three dog, he knew his place and was content with it. My comings and goings fascinated him. Up he’d bound to sniff my shoes, then my pants legs. He stopped at my waist because I’d told him he needed to stay on the ground. Left to his own devices he would have stood on his back legs and been as tall as I am.

  I always make sure Godzilla stays inside. R.C., being big, can face down the bobcat and bear that live here. Godzilla is too little. But even R.C. couldn’t best a pack of coyotes.

  About fifteen years ago we began to hear stories of coyotes being sighted in southwestern Virginia down near the Tennessee, North Carolina, and Kentucky borders where the states converge. By the early nineties, coyotes were sighted here.

  R.C. and UG raised the alarm when coyotes would sneak here under the cloak of night. While a coyote can hunt alone, it prefers to hunt in a pack. If you see one when you’re out walking, which I have, chances are you’re surrounded. Unlike wolves, who could easily kill an unarmed human, they probably aren’t going to attack you. Food is plentiful. There’s no need. Also they’re smaller than wolves. While hunting in a pack gives them an advantage, a human might be able to fend them off. Still, it’s a good idea since the coyote invasion to carry a pistol or some other form of defense when walking alone, even in the daytime.

  Coyotes in the East carry more weight than those in the West. They can run up to forty or fifty pounds if they’re full grown. Living high on all our gophers, squirrels, house cats, chickens, newborn lambs and calves, they look like German Shepherds from a distance. Then you realize that they lack the shepherd’s pronounced slope to the hindquarters and the noble Alsatian head. Curious, they’ll often follow you, watching. Once when I walked out with the bassets and all the house dogs I saw a coyote sitting on a hill near my St. Thomas Equinus sign. He took a powder and the house dogs took off after him. Rudy, the Irish Terrier, remained behind. The Irish Setter, UG, and R.C. smoked right on that coyote’s tail. By the time I reached the basset kennels, the house dogs had returned.

  The bassets were excited by all the commotion as well as the scent. Coyote scent is heavier than fox, lighter then bear. Bassets hunt rabbits, an extremely light scent. They knew the coyote wasn’t their quarry, but he smelled exciting.

  My house dogs have a dog door, but if the coyotes are around I shut it at night to keep the cats and dogs in. Coyotes hunt at intervals around here; like most predators, they have a range, a schedule. A bear can hunt a one-hundred-mile radius. A coyote’s radius is less. A fox’s can be as much as twenty miles, but being the smart creatures that they are, they are usually a lot closer to the food supply. These radii appear in various game books. While the books are as accurate as human observation allows, animals don’t read the books. Wide variation exists, which frustrates humans who want life, or foxes, to go by the book.

  December 20, 2008, I let the dogs out. Tipper, the Irish Setter, went out with R.C. When the coyotes are on the prowl, I never let the dogs out alone. Tipper came back an hour and a half later. R.C. never came back.

  The pack surrounded him and tore him apart. He took some with him. Courage. Some dogs, like some people, would have slunk down, hoping for a swift death. Makes sense. R.C. hoped for no such thing.

  Had the coyotes attacked me, R.C. would have acted in the same fashion. A Doberman is born to protect and defend, and if you belong to one, he or she will die in the effort. I was sorry I wasn’t with him, because we could have fought them off together.

  Courage comes in all shapes and sizes. Small dogs will also die to defend you. Who would take on a Jack Russell? Not me. The fierce little dog could scoot right under the bellies of the coyotes. Then it would be a race for life.

  Memories of R.C. stay with me. When the coyotes come for me in whatever form, be it human or illness or whatever launches me into the hereafter, I hope I have his courage.

  My adored Esther, playing peek-a-boo. Photo by Cindy Chandler.

  A Home Run

  Most people recognize their duty in time to avoid it. Domesticated animals share this trait with us. While we all profit from having a job, there are times when we don’t want to work.

  Dad used to say, “You can make excuses or you can make money, but you can’t do both.” While I don’t want to make excuses, there are days when I just want to play hooky. Don’t you feel the same? But in my line of work, a deadline is a deadline. No manuscript, no paycheck. Same with the farm. Much as I might want to play baseball on a fine spring day, the fertilizer has to go down, the pastures need to be aerated. By the time you’re finished, hitting that home run isn’t even a daydream. It’s twilight.

  When I was small I’d watch the Percherons being turned out after a day at the plow. They’d rush into the pasture, kick up their heels, then settle down to groom one another or eat.

  Cats, never touched by the gray brush of Puritanism, feel no compunction to be productive. They kill rodents because they enjoy it. Kittens’ play mimics killing. For them, it’s fun.

  Much of animal play prepares them for the future. Human play once did, too. Any game where hand-eye coordination is important is useful in hunting. Any game involving animals or music is also critical. Before telegraphs and telephones, people communicated with flames, smoke, and lanterns. But sound came even before that. Three key sounds produced by many European and Asian cultures were horns (originally animal horns), drums, and bells. The bells came later because we had to master metalwork first. Europeans and Africans brought their sound systems to North America.

  Animal play involves sounds, too, but I’m not sure the purpose is the same. If two dogs are roughhousing and one cries “Uncle,” the sound is high-pitched, short and sharp.

  The rest of their play mimics hunting or herding. Stalking, bumping another dog to the ground, sitting on the downed dog, circling the dog, stealing one another’s toys, and hoping to be chased—these are all mirrored in hunting or herding and reinforced by pack hierarchy.

  Perhaps the most interesting form of animal play involves birds singing. Little birds in their nests or tree hollows listen to their parents sing. Some songs are territory calls, other are the latest news such as who is on the prowl. Songs vary. The little fuzzy things in their nests, mouths ever open, hear this. They hear us, too.

  Scientists at the University of Chicago have recorded levels of activity in the brains of dozing birds. How they did this I don’t know, but I read about it in The Manchester Guardian January 2–8, 2009. The small article explains that the sleeping birds had bursts of brain activity corresponding to what they had heard the day before. The babies were learning a new song. The scientists also played adult birdsongs to chicks. The next day, after a good night’s sleep, the chicks sang better.

  Maybe there’s something to the practice of playing recordings of other languages (or even our own, since so few people master it these days) to your sleeping baby.

  This isn’t quite the same thing as true play, wherein you escape responsibility for a short time to engage in something that pleases you. But it does tell you something about the way creatures like to learn. Ever notice that if you’re told you’re going to learn something, you drag your feet? It’s like being told to eat greens because they’re good for you, not because they taste good. But if you’re playing football with your dad as a lineman and he shows you how to upend someone’s center of gravity, that’s a good lesson. You’ve just learned how to flatten an opponent or human predator to get them out of the way. You’ve also acquired a little knowledge of physics.

  Same with colors. Had my mother told me I needed to know about mixing red and yellow to produce orange, I would have listened politely but I might not have been interested. By simply doing it in front of me, she made it fascinating. Then she showed me how to breed flower colors. Even more interesting.

  “Horseplay,” like most Angl
o-Saxon words in our language, reflects physical reality. Horses do play. They run at top speed, stop, and turn. That might throw off a predator, not that they know it at the time. Or two horses will stand on their hind legs to spar with each other, usually squealing for effect. If they lived in the wild this would mimic the younger stallion challenging the older. My advice to the younger stallion: Age and treachery always overcome youth and skill.

  You probably play with your dogs and cats. With the dog you might play tug-of-war. They just love that. Some dog trainers will say that you must always wind up with the disputed object or you lose your dominance. I don’t believe it. It’s a game. Your dog knows it’s a game. Let him win sometimes.

  As for fetch, some dogs will bring back the ball, the Frisbee, or the sock you throw out until you’re ready to drop from exhaustion. Some dogs prefer for you to throw the ball and you fetch it. They’d rather watch you exert yourself than do it themselves.

  With a cat, bouncing a jack ball seems to bring delight. Many cats will retrieve, too. Any string you pull captures their attention. That game can go on for hours.

  My favorite game with cats, dogs, and foxhounds is hide-and-seek. A very traditional English huntsman would probably frown on the games I play with my hounds. But I learned from those wonderful departed hounds born in the late 1930s and early 1940s that if I played with them, they were happy. They looked for me. If you’re hunting hounds, you want them to look for you, to check back in. Thanks to playing hide-and-seek with the hounds I can hunt the old way, which is to say a loose cast. I can toss my hounds out there like marbles, knowing they’ll roll back to me if I call.