LAUGH OUT LOUD
It’s Good for the Pack.
Marooned in a snowbank with nothing but my hounds, battling Mother Nature and cuddling together, it took this brutal winter to solidify a few essential truths. I had suspected these, but in the Petrie dish of isolated winter survival, I am now convinced.
Hounds are incredibly smart, very sensitive, and predictable. Duh. If you freak out, they do. If you are calm, they are. If you expect them to do the right thing, they will. And if you expect them to screw up, they’re happy to. The more you test it, the more apparent it becomes. Finally, you can communicate without speaking, with just a subtle drop of your shoulders, cock of your head, or by channeling your inner Cesar. You can convey precisely what you want, and they’ll oblige because they’re begging for it, too. It’s mystifying. It is incredibly powerful if you have confidence and never doubt it - like a lightning bolt of enlightenment.
The good houndsmen have it. I think they call it the golden thread. They’re able to carry it and always rely upon it. I only aspire to it.
Last fall, we were roading hounds with a bunch of new people and some staff that hadn’t been around for a while. We were all trying to figure things out, learn new hounds, and establish our places. Everyone wanted to do the right thing, be helpful, and adequately introduce their talents to those unfamiliar. Tensions were highish. As we returned from a nice walk, people started worrying about losing hounds around the trappy area by the kennels. They mentally started preparing for it. The packing up became tighter. There was a palpable nervousness. There was nothing I could do or say to stop it. Naturally, the hounds pressured up. Everyone was shaking a soda bottle and waiting for the lid to explode.
It did.
A few yards from the same gate the hounds had quietly walked into a hundred times, they broke, scattered, and ran for the hills. It was insane. There was swearing, running, screaming, and frustration...maybe a little crying. Accusations flew. People’s feelings got hurt. Gallantly, the crowd tried to round up the errant beasts.
While mayhem ensued, I got off my horse with a couple of Zenlike ladies. We watched and chatted as I blew my horn. I learned long ago that I could run around red-faced and pissed (I did my fair share of running around like an asshole) or take a deep breath and remember it eventually works itself out.
It did.
Eventually, they all came home. Some came immediately; some timid ones waited for the yard to clear. After a few sips and kind words, the people decided everyone was just trying to do the right thing and forgave each other. Later, it took me an hour of apologizing in the kennels before the hounds lost the “what-the-f*&k-just-happened” look and forgave me.
We all learned a lesson.
I get frustrated when my hounds don’t respond the way I expect. It’s vexing. I wonder if they are just not listening until I remind myself, we’re not alone. When hunting or roading, there are a lot of emotions, expectations, and fears (and voices, movement, whips, and horses) whirling around in the ether surrounding the hounds. That’s hitting their senses with the same impact as ours. They’re just as frustrated and fearful of not meeting expectations as we are. We freak out. Then they freak out.
It’s been a long winter: bitter cold temperatures, howling wind, little sun and lots of snow. Today is the first sunny, warm (almost above-freezing) day in a long time. My pasty white face slurped up the serotonin as I was out feeding earlier. The hounds were playing in the yard as I cleaned. The puppies romped, the old hounds basked on the benches, and the rest followed me around, helping.
It was a beautiful day. Smile-worthy. Suddenly, a pack of playing puppies slid on the ice and slammed into my legs, nearly knocking me down. I scrambled, the surprised hounds froze, and you could almost hear the needle scratch across an eighties-era record as the world stood still, waiting to see if I’d fall.
I didn’t.
As the puppies held their breath, pointing paws and thinking, “Uh oh, we’re in truuh-uh-ble,” I couldn’t help but let out a long, loud, genuine laugh. I couldn’t stop. Instantly, the turn table started again. Every single hound pricked up its ears, began wagging its tail, and was sucked in like I was a magnet. I was shocked. It was ridiculous and silly and totally organic. I didn’t want it to end, nor did they.
We just played. And laughed like idiots.
If you have ever laid on the ground with a little puppy, you know what I mean. They lick you in the face. You giggle. They nip and then crouch down with their little butts in the air, ready to pounce. You laugh. This fuels them, so they attack and remove your hat or your glasses, which is just hysterical, so you laugh some more. The tickle fight begins. It’s like a perpetual motion machine of mirth. I wish I could bottle it as an ointment for the blues.
Today’s laugh felt terrific. I began to think that perhaps I have been moping around too long and just need to do it more often. It brought a lightness to the kennels. It reminded me that stewing and worrying are unnecessary because, eventually, everything will work itself out. Spring eventually comes.
We all communicate in so many more ways than verbally. Hounds, horses, and other humans are so sensitive to thoughts and feelings. That’s hard to recall when you’re in the heat of a disaster.
The next time I am tempted to pressure up, expect the worst, dwell on the negative, or anticipate catastrophe, I will remind myself to laugh. I will remember not to take myself too seriously. There’s nothing else you can do. I highly recommend it.
And you will always catch more hounds with laughter.