Animal Magnetism

by Rita Mae Brown

  Puppies learn so much when it’s fun. What I like to do is to hide in one of the kennel runs (they’re big, maybe a quarter-acre in some instances). They can’t see me. Then one of my whippers-in, usually Emily Schilling, turns them loose, and I call for them. When they find me, it’s cookie time. We’ll do this in the summer once or twice a week. They love it. When I call them in during their first season hunting, they usually fly right back.

  Games reinforce the fact that I’m the pack leader. Please me and wondrous events and goodies follow.

  The same principles work with horses. There’s a monster of a jump. You can’t see it, but your horse can. Eventually, without brutality, although you might have to get into him with the spurs, you take the jump. Usually you take it very, very big. You pat his neck, you tell him what a good boy he is. Always praise your horse. When you get back to the barn: cookies.

  Never overwork an animal or a child. Short lessons produce better results than long ones. End the lesson with a victory.

  It’s either the carrot or the stick. I prefer the carrot. Play is one big carrot. Same with kids. There were no dishwashers when I was young, and I don’t have one today. Just seems like a waste of electricity; but then I’m not feeding six. There were a lot of us at the table when I was young. We each had to take a turn washing dishes, including Dad. (Were my parents smart or what? Chores weren’t assigned by gender. If they had been, our cars and tractors wouldn’t have gotten fixed. Repairing vehicles was Mom’s job, since she was good at it.) The repetitive chores rotated. Scrubbing off egg, hands in soapy dishwater, I hated it. But if I found a chipped cup or a chipped plate, I’d receive a nickel. I washed those dishes, glasses, and cups with an eagle eye. After the clean-up chores we’d sit down to play cards in winter. In the summer, when the light lingered, we kids would play kick-the-can. Then we’d come in and sit on the porch with the adults and play some kind of memory game or cards. Card games served as a backdrop for long chats about history, gossip, current events. You learned about your family, other people’s families, what was in the news that day. I don’t think that happens now since even the nuclear family is atomized. Kids don’t know who their people are. No good can come from this. Okay, one woman’s opinion.

  Animals know who their people are, up to a point. A dachshund recognizes another dachshund, although I doubt the dog knows or cares about bloodlines. And species recognize one another as well as other species. Different species can play together. My cats and dogs play constantly. The big dogs flop on their sides and the cats attack. Then the dog gets up and chases them. The cat climbs onto the high back of a chair. The dog leaps into the seat. The cat jumps right on the dog, then off. The dog has to find the cat. Hide-and-seek.

  One of the cats, Stonewall, grabs the Jack Russell, Tally, and rolls her over and over. Then Tally manages to stand up and pounce on the cat. But the cat, smarty, is on his back legs and claws out. The Jack Russell, being a Jack Russell, walks right into those claws, to be taken down one more time and rolled. What fun they have, and so do I.

  Play brings us together, blows off steam. Wonderful though it is to learn through playing, it’s pure joy to just let it all go.

  Now if I could only teach them to play baseball.

  Tack’s story is one of great courage and heart. I miss her every single day.

  Let Go of the Pain, Hold On to the Memory

  Creativity is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration. That’s not a bad formula for life in general.

  When it comes to inspiration, there are many animals, people, and events that lift me up. I’m sure you have your own list. Mine includes Hannibal. What a brilliant military commander. Citation, one of the greatest Thoroughbred racehorses of all time. Pickett’s Charge. What moves us also gives insight into our own character and that of others. People inspired by Pavlova might wish to be ballerinas, or they might be moved by her combination of athletic prowess and dramatic ability that great ballet stars possess. Others revere Teddy Roosevelt. God knows, he had energy. An engineer visiting Italy will surely be inspired by the aqueducts. And so it goes.

  In my life, I’ve been fortunate to observe and study people with brains and grit. One without the other fails to impress me. Mother certainly had both. Dad, too, but what he gave me was insight into people, and emotional wisdom.

  Three of the most inspirational people I have known were Countess Judith Gurky, Mrs. Paul Summers, Jr., and Virginia Moss.

  Countess Gurky rescued her herd of Hungarian Warmblood horses during World War II. The Germans and the Russians rolled toward Hungary with the intention of strangling this remarkable nation, so different from the rest of Central Europe. Their language, flair, and superb horsemanship set Hungary apart. Hussars originated in Hungary. The Hussar is a form of light cavalry (soldiers who fight while mounted on horses, a form which has produced brilliant leaders like the American general Jeb Stuart).

  Along the way Countess Gurky collected a Russian deserter, a German deserter, and an American lost from his unit. The four of them crossed the major rivers of Central Europe, were strafed, suffered, and lost a few horses, but not many. They made it to safety.

  The Countess exhibited an imperious streak not uncommon in aristocrats born before World War I. She moved to southwestern Albemarle County in Virginia with her salvaged herd, which she managed to ship across the Atlantic. She had salvaged some resources, too, but like most people of her generation she experienced loss of land, country, possessions, money. She continued her great passion, and all of us who knew her, however slightly, felt her will, and her love for the horse. At the end of her days she dressed like a gypsy but you could still see the traces of beauty. John Western and Greg Schmidt, DVM, gave me an 8×10 photograph of the Countess, so beautiful, surrounded by her hounds. I prize it.

  If one slender woman and three men at war with one another could perform this incredible service for animals, surely I can do my part.

  Jill Summers’s inspiring trajectory flew in a different direction. Growing up in Oxford, Mississippi, with an alcoholic father—William Faulkner—and a mother who endured but could drink a bit, too, her childhood created a wary, watchful, impeccably married Southern lady. The Faulkners had a child before Jill who had died. I’m not sure they hesitated to haunt her with that. At any rate, she was well acquainted with domestic pain. Not to say there weren’t good moments in her childhood. She learned to love horses. She had the grace and generosity to care for her aged mother. She did not complain, she did not explain. Jill got on with her life. She never, ever traded on her father’s name. She married a handsome, outgoing man, Paul Summers, Jr. Three children resulted. Like all children there were times when Jill and Paul could have just swatted them silly, but Jill was one of the best mothers I have ever known. Her love was unshakable.

  Oh, the lady could ride. Like all fabulous riders she appeared to do nothing up there. She was Master of Foxhounds at Farmington Hunt Club for nearly forty years. Each year she bred a fine pack of hounds. That’s a little like Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak but Jill did it every year. Without comment. Without drawing any attention to herself.

  As most foxhunters hunt to ride, even those who had hunted with her for decades did not fully comprehend how extraordinary her achievement was. All the while, she was also a full-time wife, mother, incredible cook, and gardener. She could do anything except handle conflict. That’s when she’d disappear. I expect she could handle it with Paul, as there’s no such thing as a long marriage without sulphurous moments, or perhaps Paul figured out how to handle her.

  Few people have experienced a childhood like Jill’s, the fallout of worldwide fame (never to be desired, trust me on this) and the usual silly politicking inherent in subscription hunt clubs. A subscription pack is a miniature Congress. Enough said. My pack is a private pack, which means I am king. As Catherine de’ Medici’s son Charles of France once said, “It’s good to be king.” Sure hope I’m a better one than he was. Although Charles
IX (1550–1574) did write Traité de la chasse royal.

  Another human I have admired tremendously is Virginia Moss, MFH of Moore County Hounds in Southern Pines. Like Jill, she could ride. She bred lovely Thoroughbreds. Expansive, warm, hospitable, she gladly gave of her knowledge, her refrigerator’s contents, anything. When I first met her she was in her seventies, sailing over four-foot fences, some larger as they’d been poached out in front, without a bobble. Slim, smartly turned out, she’d smile at a member and their confidence would soar. Ginny transmitted courage as well as goodness. I wouldn’t be where I am today with my hunt club if it hadn’t been for the years that sweet soul indulged me. Twice a year I’d drive down to Southern Pines to visit with her and hunt with Moore County.

  The other glorious thing about Ginny was she could be funny without being malicious. She was around ninety-five when she left us. If you knew her, you’d agree, that was too soon. We need another ninety years! She had so much left. I cherish everything she gave to me.

  When I started my foxhunting mystery series, I rolled up parts of Jill and Ginny and threw in the magic of invention. In Sister Jane Arnold there is also some wish fulfillment on my part. She rides better than I do, and she’s a far, far better Field Master than I was when I filled that position. For one thing, I’d bedevil my huntsman too much, and for another, people in my field kept falling off, which was more my fault than theirs. I’m a better huntsman.

  Those who read the Sister Jane series fall in love with her. She’s an inspiration. The one trait I share with Sister Jane is that we’re both determined. We have grit.

  But humans aside, the most inspirational creature I have ever known, who still guides me today, was a Belgian Shepherd Greendale, a black beauty with a hint of flat-coat retriever tossed in.

  I found her in the middle of a country dirt road not far from my farm in Nelson County. She’d been run over and was screaming. She was only about six weeks old. I picked her up, which hurt her, but I spoke to her low and she calmed down. I drove to the closest vet (Dr. May wasn’t in Nellysford yet so I had to get into Waynesboro). Many of her bones had been broken. She was so small it would have been very difficult to set them. The vet, a young lady, was so kind. She asked if I wanted to put the little thing down. I looked into this puppy’s sweet brown eyes and said, “No, I’ll take care of her.”

  The vet suggested that when she had grown perhaps we could rebreak her bones and set them correctly, providing that she lived.

  She lived. She slept by my bed. I carried her around. Her bones knit quickly and I put her on every bone-enhancing supplement, every oxidizer I could find. There she’d be, in my lap, opening her little mouth as I’d pop in a bit of a pill, smothered in butter. She was too young to swallow whole ones. In six weeks’ time she had healed. Everything healed crooked. One shoulder popped up higher than the other. Her forelegs had two big lumps where the bones had broken but they weren’t too terrible. Her hips and hind legs were crooked. She couldn’t have cared less. That was the happiest dog I have ever known, the most courageous.

  At the risk of bragging, Tack worshipped me. And I her. She never tried to bite me when in pain. She wagged her tail every time she saw me. She loved riding in the truck. When fully grown, she’d come along to exercise the horses. Three sets a day adds up to six miles. She’d lope along regardless of the weather. Cold weather had to settle in her bones, because it does in mine. Not a peep. Only bright eyes and eagerness. She ate anything you chose to give her with ladylike delicacy and gratitude. Her whole life was gratitude.

  Friends who could ride would sometimes do a set with me, including Dana Flaherty, my forever professional whipper-in. Sometimes these friends would ask with concern, “Isn’t that dog in pain?”

  Would I allow an animal in pain to do this six days a week? She wasn’t in pain. She developed beautiful muscles that helped support her. Her coat shone like anthracite. She’d sometimes talk when she ran, out of sheer happiness.

  At age twelve she creaked a little when she’d rise in the morning. Time for Rimadyl. By age fourteen the arthritis was pronounced, but she still wanted to go out on every set. We allowed her one a day because those two-mile runs were good for her circulatory system and her muscles. And she’d go once her Rimadyl kicked in.

  Close to fifteen, her movements slowed and her hearing was compromised a little. No more sets. I’d shout “Walkies!” and she’d hustle to the front door for a leisurely mile walk, just the two of us. She smiled the whole time.

  One warm day, I hopped into my nice Volvo station wagon. My friend Judy Pastore was in the driveway on foot and we were chatting by the driver’s window. I had the wagon in reverse and drifted back, under five miles an hour, but I bumped into Tack who was back there waiting for me to drop the door. She wanted her ride.

  She let out a scream.

  Judy ran back to her. Tack lay on her side. I joined Judy and we lifted her up. She flopped down. Distraught but not losing it, I put my hands under her belly, straddling her while Judy slowly walked in front and we led her into the house.

  We found an old blanket and Tack gratefully lay down. She ate well, drank. But her motor skills eroded. Then she couldn’t control her bladder.

  She’d only been knocked over. A football tackle hits far harder. Nonetheless, I felt terrible over what I’d done to this marvelous dog.

  After four days of lifting her in and out of the house, holding her up (she weighed about seventy pounds), it became obvious that Tack wasn’t going to bounce back. The arthritis, age, her original injuries, and my last insult had done their work.

  I called Anne Bonda. She drove the forty-five minutes from her clinic to help us. Judy and I put Tack in the bedroom, because she wanted to sleep near me as she had all her life. Anne brought her assistant, Joanne. Tack lifted her head. She was alert but slipping away. I petted her and told her what a great dog she was. Then Judy ushered me out. Anne gave her her shot. Tack left us. Well, Anne cried, Judy cried, Joanne cried, and I tried not to, without much success.

  Tack touched everyone who knew her because of her great courage, joy of life, and devotion.

  I know she forgave me that bump. The lower tailgate of the Volvo is metal, and with her lying down just ready to get in the back, I couldn’t see her, and neither could Judy.

  I couldn’t forgive myself. I mourned my dog and cursed myself for months. I couldn’t think about her without a knot in my stomach and tears in my eyes. Not in front of anyone.

  Then one day I thought, “Tack loved me. Maybe she loved me more than any human or animal in my entire life. She wouldn’t want me to be miserable. She’d want me to be happy, and to help other dogs, cats, and horses.” That’s an obvious pep talk but it felt like truth to me.

  I let the pain go.

  Now what I remember best is her courage, her love, her desire for my striped socks. Why the striped ones and not the white, I will never know.

  I hope I can be as courageous as Tack. I hope you can, too.

  Rev. Judy Parrish blesses the animals before a hunt. Photo by Danielle A. Durkin.

  Gimme That Old-Time Religion

  The last part of 2008 and the first few weeks of 2009 witnessed some of the largest temperature swings ever recorded in the Mid-Atlantic. I’ve never seen anything like it. January 18, the mercury read minus 2 degrees Fahrenheit at 5:30 A.M. The cold remained bitter for days, then an ice storm sent us beauty and broken bones. After that, the mercury started bouncing. You’d wake up and it would be seventeen degrees. By noon it would be forty-five. The next day you’d wake up and it would be twenty-four degrees; by noon it would be sixty-two. Just about everyone I know, including myself, hosted a virulent respiratory bug complete with fevers, chills, and a racking dry cough. It felt like you-know-what. For some people this lasted two full months. Luckily I sweated and shook for two days, then pulled out of it. Well, not quite, as I was still coughing. Voice faded out, too.

  Seneca said, “Scorn pain. Either it goes or you do
.” I live by that. I did, however, not attend mass at St. John in the Woods, a beautiful chapel Patricia Kluge built. She invited some of us to attend mass held by Father Gregory. He gives you much to consider, and in a way that brings out the best of you, none of these fear messages.

  Missing mass is one thing. It was easy to make that decision as I didn’t want to be close to people and risk giving them the bug. Not taking out hounds is another. They needed to go, and people have paid money to belong to Oak Ridge Hounds. Plus I could do it without getting close to people so I felt it was safe. I went out, even on bitter days, with not much by way of padding since my fever kept me warm.

  February 8 we met at Cherry Hill, an estate built just before the Revolutionary War. Simple, not gaudy, and so lovely, people flock to hunts at Cherry Hill. The owner, Miss Anne Henderson, welcomes us each time, always acting as though we are doing her a favor by hunting her land when it is quite the reverse.

  Not for the fainthearted, Cherry Hill tests hounds, horses, and riders. The land around the house undulates, then quickly rises to the top of Turner Ridge, perhaps twelve hundred feet above the highest pasture. From the ridge you can look down and see the Upper James River, pastures hugging its banks, still in winter garb. Now that the bald eagles are back, you occasionally see them, too. In fact, you might see them at any of our fixtures north of the James. So far, we’ve sighted none south of the James.

  Trying to suppress my cough, I threw my leg over Dodger, a sixteen-hand Thoroughbred/Oldenburg cross. I’m not a big warm-blood fan but I do understand why other people are, and Dodger has taken the best of both. Marion Thorne, MFH of Genesee Valley, hunted him with a broken collarbone using one hand. Marion’s tough. Dodger’s kind. I’m in love with him. He’s still making up his mind about me, although after yesterday I may have won his heart.