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.