To Pine Croft

Much of choir practice passed in a daze of more breathing exercises, where I became very aware of my shortfall howls.  I ran out of steam well before Dame Fanny and I noticed her extraordinary, if rather tremulous range.  I am told that she was a beautiful, resonant contralto soloist in her youth.  Brahms says that Uncle JS Bach was in love with her, but her mother encouraged marriage to  his rival, Felix Mendelssohn Beagle instead, because he was younger, wealthy and had artistic leanings.  She discouraged Uncle JS, who was a rough diamond and had knocked about a bit.  Brahms says that after that, Uncle JS gave himself completely to fearless Rootling as a way of getting over a broken heart.

At 2.30 pm, I made my way over to Dame Fanny's residence of Pine Croft for three o'clock.  I left loads of time because I didn't want to arrive breathless.  Already, I am becoming aware of the effects of exercise on my voice.  I arrived at the iron gate.  It was open, but I felt awkward about entering without knocking.  I looked for a bell.  Instead, I found a laminated sign instructing, 'New arrivals, please howl in A Minor.'  Whilst reading, I felt my hackles rise and realised that I was not alone.  I sniffed:  I could smell Wharfedale (Bradford end).  I turned and through the gatehouse door could see a white whiskered beagle dozing in front of the grate.  I was disconcerted.  Should I howl?  Was it his turn?  In Beagle culture we venerate old age, so it would be unthinkable for me to howl first.

I coughed politely. No reaction.  I coughed a little louder.  His corrugated lips continued to flutter and his feet twitched spasmodically.  This was no nap and Beagle etiquette forbids approaching the unconscious elderly without due warning.  What to do?  'Swing on the gate lad!' boomed a familiar voice.
'Uncle JS - is it you?'
'Non-other. Now do as I say - we haven't got all day - in fact you're very nearly late - for a very important date!  Gate! Now! Swing!'  I powered to the gate and threw myself onto the rungs. It moved surprisingly easily and emitted the most  delectable, sustained squeak.  It did the trick!

White whiskers started and juddered to consciousness.  He fluttered his jowls and squinted at me.  'Now, young 'un, what di' thee want?'
'Well, I ...'
I was rudely interrupted. 'What's the good of a well without a bucket?  Come on young 'un - spit it out!'
'Well, '
'You've done it again!  Now, think before you speak - no welling!'  I was beginning to feel like the White Rabbit, trapped and wasting time with this old codger.  'Bartok!' boomed Uncle JS, 'pay attention and mind your manners - you are late!'

I gathered my thoughts. 'My name is Bartok. I have come for a singing lesson with Dame Fanny and I must howl - I didn't want to jump the queue sir - in case it was your turn?'
'Nay lad, I've had my turn.'
'Oh!' I said. 'Why haven't you been admitted?'
'Because, young 'un, I haven't hit A minor yet.'
'Yet?' I asked. 'How long have you been trying?'
'Years - I was like you when I started.  I don't mind though - I landed this job as gatekeeper - I keep Miss Fanny safe.'
'Miss Fanny?'
'She says that I'm her knight protector and I remind her of when she was a maiden beagle.'  He paused and peered between droopy lids, 'I,' he emphasised, 'am the only person who is allowed to call her Miss.  And you must address her as Ma'am, or  Madame - you may not use her name until you are given permission - respect Bartok!'
'And how do I address you sir?'
'Well done Bartok,' boomed Uncle JS.
'I am Sylveste.'
'But you're not French?'
'No - Bradford - and you're not Hungarian.'
'Ah! Yes, of course.  Er, should I howl now?'
'Aye - you get three tries and then you'll have to come back tomorrow.'
'But I have a lesson - I'll be late!'
'Best hit it first time then.'

I can tell you, by the third attempt, I was sweating.  How would I be able to face Brahms if I couldn't even gain admittance?  'Remember the gate Bartok,' urged Uncle JS, 'howl the squeak.'  I concentrated, imagined myself swinging on the gate and howled.  A bell jangled in the gatehouse. 'You can go up to the house Bartok.  Well done lad.'

I've never had a singing lesson, apart from when I was very young and in the Cub Beagles.  Madame is a legend amongst singing teachers.  Brahms says she can trace her singing lineage back to the magnificent Maria Callas Beagle.  As I padded up the gravel drive, I nipped myself - I really didn't know why she wanted to teach me, but I felt very lucky to be here.

On being good

I really do want to be a better Beagle and I am truly sorry for the impact of my reckless behaviour on Brahms, but this morning I would rather have missed breakfast than go howling.  It is my usual morning routine to watch Brahms prepare for choir, whilst I doze, but today I had to take part in the preparations.  'First we stretch the spine and rib cage - this is to help with breathing,' instructed Brahms.  I completed the stretches to his satisfaction and then followed vocal exercises.  It appears that I have much to learn about controlling my diaphragm, in order to produce the lengthy howls and whistles required in Beagle Song.  Brahms says I sound more like a terrier-rapper than a well modulated growler.  Anyway, he was pleased with my efforts, although I did overhear Auntie Gill say, 'Is Bartok choking?'  It is clear she has no ear for Beagle Song.

I can't say that I was looking forward to joining the choir. It lived up to my most hideous expectations - it's full of Dames and wrinkly Grand Dames.  I mean, who wants to sit next to Grand Dame Fanny Mendelssohn, no matter how steeped she is in Beagle Song, when Rudmilla (divine, blonde, Cleopatra-eyed soprano, Serbian Beagle - you should hear her whistles - Great Beagle! She inspires me to rootle hares!) - sits  the back row.  'Brahms dear, leave your brother with me!' quavered an imperious voice.  To my dismay, I found myself stuck centre front row with Dame Fanny.  Gloom. Brahms was ecstatic.  'Bartok,' he whispered, 'it's a great honour!  Do not misbehave.'

'Let me look at you Bartok,' commanded Dame Fanny.  I felt as if I was being dissected as her bloodshot eyes roved over me.  'I knew your Uncle JS, you know,' she pronounced. 'you have his nose - he wasn't much of a howler either.  Let me hear you.'
'Now?' I quivered.
'Yes of course now.  Come along.  Sit up straight, relax the shoulders.'  I did my best.  'No dear, you're hunching - too tense.  Look at your paws - even your toes are rigid.  This won't do at all. Now breathe in and howl!'  Truly, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.  I wished that Rudmilla wasn't there to witness my humiliation.  'Come along Bartok!' urged Dame Fanny, 'we haven't all day.  What is the matter?'
'I'm sorry Dame Fanny,' I replied, trying to control my front legs, which were shaking with a will of their own, 'I'm not used to this - I'm nervous.'
'Nerves, Bartok, are most unattractive.  You either want to sing, or you don't.  You are here in a choir, so sing or go home.'  There was no escape.

Here's hoping, I thought.  Great Beagle! I prayed and let rip my best howl through my parched throat.  Dame Fanny listened with head down and great wrinkles shrouding her eyes.  She nodded, but it was some time before she raised her head and the wrinkles readjusted. She smiled at me!  'I can hear what you are trying to do Bartok,' she said kindly. 'Beagles come to me for lessons and they say, "Dame Fanny, I just want to sing for fun, not be too serious about it." '  She paused and fixed me in a tractor beam gaze before continuing, 'I have no time for that.  Howling is all about technique.  Without technique, you cannot bring out what is within you or the song - and you Bartok, have it within you.  We will start this afternoon.'

Well, I was gob-smacked.  No one has ever told me that I have 'it' within me.  For once I felt important and special.  I'm not sure what the 'it' is, but Grand Dame Fanny knows about these things.

I think maybe I have just experienced, 'feeling good.'  I think I like it.  And, I'm looking forward to my lesson with Dame Fanny.  Brahms says she doesn't waste her time on Beagles who don't have 'it'.

Atonement

I have been doing a lot of thinking since my near death experience. I have also been having nightmares.  You can guess - I'm dangling from that branch, suffering from hypothermia and I know that I must stay awake, but I can't and the Grim Beagle is coming, sniffing for me in long, snivelling snorts that  creep ever closer.  Uncle JS does not show up. I am paralysed.  I can feel GB's cold breath as he whispers, 'Bartok ... Bartok ... where are you?  I have bones for you - juicy ham bones - and knuckle bones.  There's no need to be frightened,' he tempts, 'you'll be safe with me.  All your pain will stop if you come with me.'  My resistance weakens and I whimper.  He homes in on the sound and just as his bony, shrivelled snout pushes through the hawthorn, I jerk awake in terror, which wakens Brahms too.

Brahms is being very kind to me, even though I almost cost him his voice.  So, I am trying to turn over a new leaf.  Brahms says that I need to get in touch with my Beagle roots.  He says that at times, I am too much of an individual and that I should tune into my Pack-side, which in his opinion, is under-developed. He has recommended that I meditate on the Second Precept of Beagle, 'Together we are strong,'  during morning relaxation and take up singing.  'You'll never be a cantor, Bartok,' he said to me, 'you've done too much shouting, but with discipline, you will make a most satisfactory growler.'  I confess, I was less than enamoured by the prospect and the old Bartok had an overwhelming desire to give him a good humping, but I restrained the demon and agreed to go along to early morning howl practice. 'Because, Bartok', pronounced Brahms, 'Beagle Song is about individuals singing the One Song for the One Pack for the Good of All - the Third Precept of Beagle.'  I am being saved!  So why do I want to be really naughty? I think it's because being good is boring.

I am also working on improving my behaviour on walkies, because I had, during my AWOL, given Auntie Gill something called a 'severe turn', which makes her peculiar.  From my observations, her symptoms included restlessness, sighing, muttering and aimless indoor walking.  I find it disturbing to watch, so it must be awful to have to do it.  Anyway, I am resolved to be nice to old starchy drawers from now on.

All's well in the end

Brahms gave me the cold shoulder for two days.  He slept at the far end of our cage and turned his back if I tried to make friends.  I know he was cold; I was too.  That made it difficult to sleep, but on top of that, when I did drift off, I was disturbed by strange whistling sounds from Brahms.  He was awake all Christmas night.  Every half hour, he would stretch and hum scales very softly.  It seemed that his voice was back!

Well, as you know, Brahms's solo was a triumph and he has been asked to sing for the Grand Lodge of the Freebeagles for the Mid-Summer Fest!  His performance stood out because his interpretation brought tears to the eyes of Grand Beagle Purcell, who in his youth had been a great exponent of the Beagle Song.  'No beagle,' he said, 'since the great howler Pavarotti himself, has used the whistle so eloquently.'  He was very interested to know what had inspired Brahms. 'Well,' replied Brahms, 'it was my brother Bartok.' I withered under his gaze and wondered what was coming  . 'If it wasn't for him,' Brahms went on, 'I wouldn't have tried to whistle the high notes - I would have howled them instead.' He paused and directed a furrowed brow in my direction.  Here it comes, I thought.  'But Bartok made me think differently, when a sore throat shortened my register.  The cloud, it would seem, turned out to have a silver lining.'

I'm glad we're friends again.

Post trauma

I took a few days to recover from my ordeal.  Brahms showed little sympathy for my plight; he was preoccupied with his Boxing Day solo.  His singing teacher said his voice should have complete rest and he should not open his mouth for two days, otherwise he might get warts on his larynx.  'Impossible,' whispered Brahms.
'There's no alternative - if you want to sing at all,' came the reply.

Brahms went very still gave me a long, hard stare and with no warning, flew at me, knocked me over and pinned me down in a half Nelson.  'I'm fed up with you, Bartok Beagle!' he croaked, 'this is all your fault.  You never think of anyone but yourself - and you never consider the consequences of your actions on others!  This isn't the first time you've put us through the mangle - and you seem to think it's funny!'

I was taken aback.  I've never seen him so angry - neither could I see that a few croaks here and there would be a problem.  'That's exactly it!'  Hissed Brahms, 'You can't see that anything could be a problem for anyone else! I don't get in the way of your rootling, but you've got in the way of my singing and now, because of you, I can't!'
'Off!' commanded Auntie Gill and pulled Brahms away.  He was overwrought and quivering with temper.
'I'm very sorry, Brahms.  I didn't realise,'  I said.
'That's just it - you never do!  Don't come near me!  I don't want to see you!' And he slunk off to the kitchen.

'That's not like Brahms,' commented Auntie Gill.  'I wonder what's the matter?'

AWOL

I wasn't going to own up about this, because I am ashamed.  Why? Because I allowed pride in my ability as a fearless Rootler to override common sense and I ended up in a situation.

December 23rd, the earth glistened and crunched with a dusting of snow under a cobalt sky.  I can tell you, I was sick of the Christmas thing, so it was a relief when Auntie Sophie took us on a walk.  I decided en route that I was going to have an adventure and some fun with the humans.   Brahms was up for it too.

To my delight, I knew that when we we set off from the Gardeners' Arms, we were in for the long route to Knaresborough along the Nidd Gorge.  We rootled and chased and behaved impeccably, coming back when called (we are partial to cheese flavoured treats with Omega 3 fish oil) and not wandering too far, because the scents were not very enticing: they were cold and there's not much satisfaction in chasing yesterday's rabbits.

Anyway, as we rootled towards Knaresborough, the gorge becomes ever steeper and it was great fun chasing up nearly vertical cliffs and then hurtling down at speed. (This is where human's got the skiing idea from, because without aids, they can't hurtle anywhere.)  There was an enticing aroma of sheep towards the top.  Brahms could smell it too, so we decided to investigate.  Auntie Sophie started calling and rattling the treat box, but we were impervious to such distractions, because the thrill of the Chase was upon us.  I knew that just over the next hedge would be the sheep, but tantalisingly, one hedge led to another.  Brahms lost interest and the treat box worked its magic.  This is why he is not a Rootler.

I watched the capture of Brahms from on high.  He is such a ninny at times.  He still hasn't grasped that treats on the ground are a trap and that while he's busy scoffing, he will be snared.  Right, I thought to myself, if that's the game, then I'm not playing and so I stayed at the top of the gorge. Auntie Sophie was becoming more and more hysterical and I maintained her levels of anxiety by popping over the parapet, now and again.  It was funny watching her swing between being cross with me and wheedling and cajoling.  I was only going to tease her a few more times, when disaster happened. Suddenly, I came to an abrupt dangle.  Investigations revealed my harness was snagged in a tangle of spiky hawthorn.

I wriggled, thrashed and chewed.  Auntie Sophie's voice faded down the gorge.  Brahms was howling furiously, one minute singing of the anxiety and desolation of my loss and the next shouting what he was going to do to me when we got home.  It wasn't very nice.  Well, it wasn't my fault that I was stuck, was it?  It could have happened to any dog.  Well, any dog in tune with his spirit, that is.

The light faded, Auntie Gill had turned out to look.  Lots of different voices were calling for me, but I was too exhausted to reply and my neck was cricked at an awkward angle as I chewed the hawthorn.  I had tried gnawing the harness but having ended up in an even worse dangle, had abandoned that tactic.  The hawthorn chewed dry and bitter.  I was desperate for a drink.  Night came, the voices ceased and I had been dangling for four hours.  You've really done it this time Bartok, I said to myself as I froze into a doze.

'Come on lad!' commanded a resonant voice. I swam to consciousness and looked into the blackness.  Nothing.  'Come on lad!  This won't do!'  The voice was in my head!  I must be dreaming! 'No you're not,' boomed the voice, 'call yourself a Rootler?  This is nowt of a fix lad!  One last swing and one more chew! Now come on!'  I recognised the voice!  It was uncle JS! He'd come for me!
'Nay lad, I've come to get you out of this pickle and send you home.  Now swing and then one last chew!  There's no time for owt else!'  One doesn't argue with Uncle JS Freebeagle.  I was honoured that he was with me.

I gave my all and as I flung myself forward the harness snapped and I was free!  'Well done lad!  Now get thysen across that field and you'll be grand!'
'Are you coming?' I asked.
'I'll be around until you're safe,' he replied, 'now concentrate on the job in hand - priorities lad!'  Shivering, I dragged myself across frozen hillocks.  The final fence came into sight and a small yellow light danced in the distance. 'Follow the light!'  instructed Uncle JS.

I took a tumble down the bank and yelped in shock.  The light stopped suddenly and a voice I didn't recognise called, 'Bartok!  Bartok!'  With my last reserves I limped towards the light and a tall figure loomed above me.  I was sick with fear.  Was it the Grim Beagle? 'Don't be so daft lad!' chivvied Uncle JS, 'It's the rescue party.  You'll be champion now.  Be brave!'

'Well!' said a kind voice.  'I think we have found the missing Beagle!'  I was put on a lead and walked down the track.  I recognised where I was!  I had been dangling only five minutes away from the Gardeners' Arms.  'Yes,' said Paul (my rescuer), into his mobile, 'I have him.  Come and collect one tired, hungry Beagle.'

Auntie Gill was very nice when she arrived.  I think she was close to tears.  I was too tired to even wag my tail, but I was very pleased to see her.  I realised that Uncle JS had gone, but that was alright too.

Brahms was ecstatic on my return and gave me his bone, because he could see that I was not at all well.  I felt better after a pilchard dinner and plenty to drink.  The humans rushed around getting ready to go out to a party.  'We can go now,' said Auntie Gill, 'now that we know Bartie is safe.'

While they were out, Brahms passed through the feeling sorry for me stage and then began to feel sorry for himself. I had ruined his day, he complained. While I had been dangling at death's door, he had been marched up and down the gorge and told to howl for me. He was very cross because he had strained his fine voice and his paws were blistered. Then he took his bone back.

Soul music

I am still reeling from the emotional impact of brother Brahms' sublime rendition of the Air of Supplication on Boxing Day. Meanwhile, back in the human world, I am having to endure Beethoven, a lot, because  Auntie Gill is practising on him.  I am glad I am not Beethoven.  However, I think he is quite good, although compared to Beagle Song, he is rather limited in his tonal range and timing, but I can see that he does attempt to break out from the rules. Humans appear to like rules (and discipline and obedience) a great deal. Beagles like rules too, but only when it is a matter of life and death.

Singing is our First Art (followed closely by Scent Art) and we have many forms of song.  Our  exceptional hearing is especially attuned to the voice.  We also have a particular passion for horn and trumpet, which humans have invented, in an attempt to communicate in hound sound.  Once you have listened to a Pack in voice, it is clear that these instruments are an effort to mimic our range of expression.  It's a shame that pitiful hearing severely limits human creativity in sound, but I do admire them for trying.

I find symphonies and wind instruments in particular, heavy going.  This is because I not only hear the notes, but I also hear the breathing: the huffing and puffing detracts and is hard to ignore; when combined with feet shuffling and page turning, it is overwhelming; rumbling stomachs remind me of dinner and then I completely lose the plot.  Auntie Gill's piano stool squeaks, therefore Beethoven squeaks.  She should sit still.

Hound Song is all about improvisation.  It begins with a solo motif and as and when, the other voices of the chorus join in.  The beauty of our music is that each voice sings in the most fitting and comfortable key for the individual, which means that there are no wrong notes or wrong sounds, (nor is their any need for tuning up), which is the opposite to humans, who try to sound the same and are pompous about pitch.  They do make things difficult for themselves, because this embeds the concept of 'wrong notes' and to avoid 'wrong notes' they spend much time training their ears to hear better.  This is a waste of time: their ears will never get better; you only have to look at the ear's lack of mobility and small size to see that evolution has not been kind.

Personally, I prefer brass to piano.

In Beagle Song, the listener tunes in to individual voices within the chorus in search of the first motif. There is only a short time in which to find it, because we are natural improvisers and before long the first motif is heavily embellished and then, in its overloaded state will give birth to multiple motifs.  Those nights when one finds both the voice and motifs in an unbroken chain are magical:  for a passing moment, one knows the Three Mysteries and then they are gone.

Ah well!  Song enhances our lives, which is what Brahms did on Boxing Day.

Back from holidays

It has been impossible to write, because we have been in kennels with no internet access, whilst the daddies and Auntie Gill completed the rituals of Christmas, by going on holiday.  After the Wales experience, I'm glad I didn't have to go skiing, or visit friends.  Admittedly, the kennels were rather Spartan, but there were compensations.  Julian, the Jack Russell in the kennel next door, turned out to be a Prominent Terrier and  a Master of the Burrows.  I was fascinated to learn of our similar roles in rabbiting.  We both agreed that it would be interesting to spend a day rootling with each other.  I can see how solo rootling is more efficient than Pack rootling, because I always have to have half an ear for where the Pack is and that can slow me down.  On the other hand, solo work is a problem when a burrow has more than one exit and it is extremely dangerous in the event of a collapse.

Anyway, I'm glad it's all over.  Christmas was one trauma after another.  Humans need to relax more. First there was a great deal of unnecessary scent purging, followed by elaborate dressing up, after which we were not allowed any where near Auntie Gill.  We could smell her approach on a cloud of lime.  (One of her admirers bought her perfume for the festival.)  It beggars belief that she wants to smell like a fruit.  It's a basic rule of beagle dress etiquette that to be welcomed into the Pack, one should attempt to blend in with its scent.  She must want to make friends with limes.  I can't think why.  Her admirer must be one: or very odd.

Our own Yule-Fest of Hounds takes place on 26th December.  It is a solemn occasion, because for all Hounds, mid-winter is make or break:  not all those who are in the Pack now will survive  until Spring.  We know that each of us will lose someone this winter.  This is central to being a Hound Dog: it is part of our pain and our joy and the Yule-Fest encompasses both.

The day begins with a Dawn Hound Chorus, where we keep vigil for sunrise.  As in the carol 'Once in Royal David's City', a solo hound gives voice to the rising sun, howling in adoration of its warmth and fear of its loss, when the bleak mid-winter will take its toll and the Grim Beagle will prowl.

Brahms at work with his accompanist, Joni

I was very proud, because this year, Brahms was chosen to be Pack Cantor.  His glissando howls, ornamented with whistled mordents in the Air of Supplication was truly moving. Then we all joined in the chorus to howl for success in the traditional Yule-Fest Chase, which is the last one where we all have enough energy to run.  If the Chase is a success, then our chances of surviving the Spring Fast are good.  If it fails, then we will fail and need another hero like Uncle J.S. to save us. This year, all is well.

All is well

And yes, that is why humans have Boxing Day.  I've noticed that humans are great ones for adopting traditions of other animals and then taking the credit.