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.