Putin's Goodbye

As NPR detailed the meeting between President Bush and President Putin, a stray kitten was brought into our home. And without a name, Daddy jokingly named him Putin. It stuck. Ten years later, as Alec and I were getting on Route 15 in Camp Hill, my family called. Putin had died that morning. While Mother imparted the news, we approached a stop light, and heard it: a meow. Maybe a cat was wandering the roadside beside our car. But no, as we accelerated onto the highway at 60 mph, another meow. And another. Calm and clear meows. A last goodbye.

An Ode

The bathtub spouts scalding water, perfect for soaking the hounds’ food. The stall doors are raised enough for Rags or Frolic to duck under for a visit. The cement floors showcase my dew-dampened footprints in the early morning, and puddles left by dropped water balloons in the afternoon. The ladies’ room in Aldie is only unwelcoming once each day, the hour before cocktails, when half-dressed women emerge from their baths to coif themselves. At all other times, it is our shelter, our safe haven, snuggly during spring rains, chilled in the summer heat, and toasty against the chilly fall air.

Nobility

The hounds were gone, and my pony Fred was long past tired. Sick of kicking him along, I dismounted and decided to run instead, dragging Fred along at reins’ length. Now at the Morano’s, we stood in the bottom covert, a little braided girl and her pony, covered in burrs and mud. And five feet before us, the most noble bird in our skies, a red-tailed hawk perched atop a stump. Fearing losing a finger in his beak, I petted him with the end of my whip at arm’s length. He looked offended, but stayed put. We were not worthy.

Morning's Itinerary

It’ll be dark for another hour, but we’re awake and heading for the barn. The hounds’ excitement breaks the 5am silence. At 6:00 they’ll pour from the door and pack up on the front lawn. We’ll scale Knacker Hill and meander the countryside. By 7:30, we’ll be heading home on the gravel path through the Slacks’ apple orchard. Emerging with an apple each, we’ll eat breakfast by the pond while the hounds go swimming. The horses will slobber over apple cores all the way home. By 9:00 we’ll be up at the house, down for our nap.

Work Weekend

Twice a year, the most devoted basseters and beaglers trek to Aldie, fully equipped with power tools. The manliest among them drive the steel-wheeled tractor or operate the stump grinder. The next tier of workers take down selected areas with chainsaws. The men incapable of either point and give directions. Meanwhile the women pile into the kitchen and prepare a constant flow of hearty meals and bountiful desserts. Us girls are sent to work with paint brushes. Deer hunters arrive, happily doing their share to maintain the property. They work well alongside the others, united in mutual love for Aldie.

Bathtime

After bathtime in our old Jackson Avenue house, we’d put our pod of toy beluga whales away, and begin construction on a towel fort. Inside, we’d place our little box heater whose face glowed red as it warmed us. We’d huddle around it, shielding ourselves from the chilly air of the bathroom. In there, we became the three little pigs. The wolf, then, was our mother, who clawed at our poorly pitched tent, playing along. Eventually, she’d get in, but instead of gobbling us up like the big bad wolf, she’d just sit there beside us and enjoy the warmth.

Wolfe's Diner

After we leave the Bedminster Shell station, we don’t stop again until Wolfe’s Diner in Dillsburg. There, people stare at the three little blonde girls with their Daddy. They come over to tells us their thoughts.

...pretty as a picture...

...where you going with all them dogs...

...Don’t like pickles?? Don’t you know where you are...

The bill comes, it’s just over twenty dollars for the four of us. Daddy checks on the bassets outside. Libby admires pictures of James Dean in the bathroom hallway. Sarah and I eat our locally raised ham. 
Another hour and a half to Aldie.