On the Backs of Bassets

Though Planet Earth may say differently, the feeding frenzies of the sea have nothing on dinner time at the kennel. Dozens of hounds, newly freed from their yards, gather together in mutiny, attempting to break down the door as the Israelites did the walls of Jericho. Upon their release, they charge, magnificently. Confronted with a new doorway, narrower than the wave is wide, they grow vertically, making a double-decker flow of fur, which just as quickly dissipates into neat rows along the troughs.

This is all viewed with awe from the sidelines, but one, braver than us all, has gone undercover, become one with the Great Wave. My cousin: Martha Abigail Gilbert, once stood braced against the tide as the door flung open. As her legs washed out from under her, she rode atop the mass, their backs carrying her body. Her glory was brief, but she is determined to reclaim her place among the bassets. Each Sunday after hunting, her briar-tattered clothes blowing in the wind, she stands as Lady Liberty before the gates, prepared for whatever may ensue. Her mother complains loudly, but dares not step in front of those doors, not even to rescue her only child.