“Ugh!” said I, disgusted at the thought.
“Does not that prove what I say?” asked my companion. “We pass her continually in going out and coming in, and yet not one of us ever thinks of making a meal of her. But if the fox was our natural food, we couldn’t help doing so, and the first opportunity that presented itself she would be digested victuals.”
“But, perhaps, the fear of getting a good drubbing may operate as a check to the inclinations of others,” observed I.
“If that were the case,” replied he, “how is it that the hounds, which occasionally come home by themselves hungry, never make the slightest attempt to injure her? Nothing would be easier than to kill and eat the fox without the smallest risk of being discovered.”
“There’s great force in your argument,” I remarked.
“I flatter myself that there generally is,” returned the egotistical old hound. “Now, look at a cat with a bird,” he resumed, “the cases are very different. Whether the bird is wild or not—let it be on the tree or in a cage—she will be equally disposed to make it her prey. Birds, like mice, are her natural food; and she, therefore, takes them without any other motive than to please her palate; but foxes, not being ours, we require the ardour of the chase to make them agreeable to our tastes.”
“What do you think would be the effect if we were not allowed to break the fox up?” inquired I.
“That we should be just as eager to find, run and pull him down,” replied he. “You hear sometimes of men talking about hounds wanting blood. It’s all nonsense. We may want to kill; but hounds never flag from want of blood. All highly bred dogs like us love sport, and we hunt for the enjoyment of it; not for our bellies. But men are such selfish beasts, and think so much about eating that they can’t give us credit for being more disinterested than themselves.”
“You are very severe on our masters,” rejoined I.
“Not more so than they deserve,” returned Trimbush. “Not one in a thousand of ’em thinks for himself; but just repeats that which he’s told, and so they go on babble, babble, babble, with about as much meaning and sense as a flock of cackling geese. It’s a strange thing, too,” continued he, “that what they see in one case, forms no precedent or guide to their addlepated brains in another. I don’t mean to compare pointers, or setters, or greyhounds with us, of course; but they never get blood, and yet they take as much pleasure in their work, and are as eager to find game, as if every bird shot over them was plucked, roasted, and served up in rich gravy, on silver, for their suppers. Now, it is quite clear that they don’t hunt for blood, and, therefore, why should we? It is true that we look for it at the finish from habit, and because we are cheered even to take it, and I never feel wilder than when Tom and Ted are who-whooping over us; but, to say that we absolutely require blood, is all nonsense.”