"The One" Dog and "The Others": A Study of Canine Character

by Frances E. Slaughter

With the hounds, then, who at least are in no wise responsible for deeds of darkness done in secret, let us return to the field. The results of beneficent rule in the kennels is seen in their manner of hunting. If the huntsman and his whippers-in have won their confidence and love, the hounds have, beyond their own keenness in the chase, the desire to please those to whom they look as their natural guides and rulers. The hunt servants, and above all the huntsman, take the place of the old tribal leader, whose will was imposed on his followers. We all know how hounds when they have failed to recover the line of their hunted fox, will look up to the huntsman with an inquiring expression of countenance, that says as plainly as any words could tell us, they are asking him to help them: “We have done our part. Now it is your turn to come to our assistance.”

And how much the hounds will do for themselves, and how clearly the individual characteristics of each member of the pack is brought out in their common work! The hounds that are deferred to in the kennel will generally take the lead in the chase. Some naturally take the first place, and others as naturally follow. If we glance for a moment at the riders behind them, shall we not see exactly the same thing taking place? The man and woman whose observation is keen, decision prompt, and whose will is fearless, will be seen in front, while those of lesser gifts of courage and insight will follow in their wake. There is, of course, yet another partner in the chase, whose character and powers have to be reckoned with, but, even so, a bad horse will be at his best, or a good horse at his worst, according to the way in which he is handled. Certain I am that no stupid man or hound will ever lead in a good hunt.

But let us watch the hounds at work. No sooner does one touch the scent than he waves his stern and signals to the others. As he lashes his sides, those who are near enough to see the sign crowd round him; and each one, partly in emulation and partly in sympathy, works hard to find and identify the scent. Then an eager, exultant note comes from one of them, and now is the time when we shall learn much of the character the speaker bears. The other hounds will raise their heads quickly, but if the note comes from one whom they do not trust, they will resume their quest quietly and take no further notice of his call. But if the hound is one who is looked up to and respected, his fellow workers will fly to him from all parts of the covert, and a chorus of eager voices will corroborate his opinion and show that their trust was not misplaced.

They run on close together till once more they lose the scent, and there is a check. Now again we learn much of the dispositions and characters of the workers. The pack spreads out like a fan, and each hound works by and for himself. But not all in the same way. The slack and careless hound will gallop round aimlessly and then wait to see what the others do. The steady, persevering hound will, with a painstaking sense of duty, try every blade of grass. The hound of thoughtful mind will go to all the more likely places first; and the wise old hound, whose business has been fully mastered, will gallop unhesitatingly back to the place where he last had the scent. How often the rest are put right by such a leader! He gallops back to the gateway, through which he had been swept by the common impulse that will carry the best hound over the line sometimes. But as soon as he has time to think, he pauses. He knows he has not smelt fox since he came through the gate, and he knows, too, that a fox will often turn short under a wall or fence. So he goes back, turns up by the hedge, and hits off the line, and both hounds and huntsmen follow at his call.

Few more wonderful instances of reasoning power are, I suppose, ever shown in the field than by the stag-hounds when they have brought a wild stag to bay. Though I have never ridden with the Devon and Somerset, some of the most picturesque and thrilling moments of sport I have ever experienced have been with them. The stag, after bounding down the precipitous sides of a rocky combe, will plunge into the quick-flowing stream that divides the wooded depths of the valley. The hounds are close behind, but not within view. As they, too, reach the water, they divide, some following the stream on one side, some on the other, while others take to the bed of the water itself. The huntsman, it may be, has not yet threaded his way between the boulders and thickly planted trees that have impeded his progress. But the hounds work up to their stag, which stands at bay where the current is running strongest. Now the older hounds come to the front, with the wisdom learned of former encounters. They trot up the bank, past the spot where the stag is standing. Then they take to the water, and are carried almost without effort to him. If they had entered the stream sooner, they could not have reached him, for they were powerless to breast the current; and as the young hounds watch their strategy, they too learn the lesson they will put in practice later. Here, then, we have evidence of the natural lead of superior intelligence, and of the willingness of the younger and less experienced to learn from the example of their elders.

But the foundation of the powers of combination that show such an infinite variety in the field is laid in kennel life. The better the discipline and the greater the influence of the huntsman over his pack, the more readily will they work together. No better or quainter example of this was ever given than that of John Press, whose fame as a successful huntsman spread far and wide from the Blackmore Vale country. Here I will quote again from a book, with which my connection gives me the means of vouching for the absolute truth of its statements. It is Miss Serrell, one of the keenest of sportswomen and hound lovers, who tells the story.[3]

“A ... wonderful instance of perfect kennel discipline was that I once witnessed with terriers and foxhounds in the Blackmore Vale kennels. One day, not long before Press retired, I rode over to the kennels, and being told by the kennelman that Press was in the orchard with the hounds, I dismounted and went in search of him. The sight that met my eyes as I opened the gate I shall never forget. There was Press in his kennel coat, with only a slim white willow in his hands, surrounded by both packs of hounds, and seated on a low stool with his favourite little hound, Miranda, on his knees, while he was encouraging some nine or ten terriers to scratch at the rat-holes round an old apple-tree. Not one of the hounds ventured to interfere as they stood round watching the terriers’ efforts, and it was enough for Press to lift his little stick if one essayed to go too near them. Seating myself on a handy stump, I watched the performance, while the old man related anecdotes of his favourites, and assured me he could never have done what he did with them except for their home training. It was a common saying of his that you could teach more in kennel than out, and with this opinion I cordially agree.

“Perhaps the most curious part of that orchard scene was to come, for Press after a time rose and passed slowly back to the kennels, with the hounds following. Throwing open one of the doors, he turned, and, eyeing the hounds sternly, he raised his hand, and to my great amusement exclaimed in his gruff voice, ‘Ladies first!’ At this signal every ‘lady,’ with a little wave of her stern, trotted forward and went in; and as soon as all had disappeared the door was shut, not a dog-hound in the meantime offering to follow. As he threw open the other door, Press called out, ‘Now, then, gentlemen!’ and the dog-hounds marched majestically in.”

If slackness prevail in their home, hounds will be as ready to take advantage of it as are our own children. Some hounds are more inclined to mischief than others, but if one breaks out there is danger that all the others may follow. How often, again, is the counterpart seen in our playing-field or classroom. Idleness in all cases is the beginning of vice. Many of us know the story of the wild young hounds that once led a whole pack—and a good one—on the line of a donkey. It is said that for long afterwards the huntsman and whippers-in of these hounds regarded the very word “donkey,” uttered in their presence, as a personal insult.

That discipline must be tempered with affection, the conduct of hounds in the field shows clearly. For a man who is harsh to them, who is too ready with lash and hard words, hounds will have much the same relation that a schoolboy has to the tutor he detests, or the soldier to the officer he does not respect. The main-spring of good work is love, not harshness.