Hounds And the Fury

Chapter 1 Silvered with frost, the geometric patterns on the kennel windowpane displayed Nature's gift for design. Sister Jane Arnold stared at the tiny, perfect crystals, then turned back to the large old oak desk in the middle of the office. In warmer weather the back door of the office would be open to the center aisle in this, the main kennel. She found it comforting to inhale the odor of her hounds, to hear them breathing as they slept on their raised beds. Today, Boxing Day, December 26, Monday, the mercury clung to twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The office felt warm at sixty-eight degrees, and she gave a small prayer of thanks that she'd found the money to put in a new heat pump and venting for the main building. The hounds, nestled in their straw-filled beds, threw off body heat, so the thermostat in their portion of the building was kept at forty-two degrees. The actual temperature hovered near fifty. The two medical rooms were warmer. Fortunately, no one was in sick bay. Christmas culminated in such frenzy that Sister wished Joseph and Mary had been sterile. Sister found Boxing Day one of the happiest days of the year. In England, thousands would turn out in the villages and along country roads to witness hundreds of vigorous folk riding to hounds. The ban on foxhunting, voted by Parliament in 2004 and coming into force February 2005, was a sorry work of class hatred. The first Boxing Day after the ban was 2005, and British foxhunters rode out to a man. Local authorities declined to arrest these men and women. Constables knew that foxhunting benefited the livelihoods of their communities. The bizarre aspect of the foxhunting ban was that not even the most fervid Labor Party members pretended they wished to save foxes. It was perfectly fine with them if the farmers shot the beautiful creatures. The whole point of the ban was to punish those suspected of wealth or title from enjoying themselves. The fact that most English foxhunters were middle-class people was lost in this revenge on the wealthy few. As the Labor Party had created seven hundred new criminal offenses under Tony Blair's leadership, the fact that noncountry people tolerated these infringements on their rights shocked Sister. She wondered whether Americans, no longer conversant with country lifeand worse, feeling superior to itcould become as illiberal as the Laborites. The political push to ban foxhunting in America would start on one of the coasts, but Sister believed it wouldn't succeed. Americans still retained vestiges of common sense. Better yet, Americans did not hunt to kill the fox. They were content to chase the highly intelligent creature until he finally eluded themeasy enough for the fox. Sister's study chair had rollers on it, and in a burst of enthusiasm she propelled herself around the room and spun backwards. Shaker Crown, the huntsman, opened the front door at this moment. "Someone's happy." "Three hundred and sixty-four days until next Christmas. Thank you, Jesus." She braked, putting both feet on the ground. "Amen, Sister." They burst out laughing. "Hounds had a wonderful Christmas. Nothing like warm stew. I remember watching my father cook it up outside. The pot was large enough to hold three missionaries." He smiled. "Horses liked their treats, too, as did I. Thank you for my Dehner boots and my bug guard." "Do you think they really work?" "Bug guards?" He paused. "Not now." "I deserved that." She rolled her eyes at his droll remark. They wouldn't work now because it was winter, hence no insects were flying around outside. "Sure they work. That curBrown, Rita Mae is the author of 'Hounds And the Fury ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780345465474 and ISBN 0345465474.