|sadeyes120.simplesite.com In the hilly farmland of Tennessee’s Upper Cumberland region, where my father’s family has been anchored since before it was Tennessee at all, the kind of fox hunting favoured was a rougher cousin of the traditional mounted style. While hunt clubs like Shake rag set out early to catch their quarry’s scent before it burns off in the morning sun, my people cast their hounds out into the darkness of night, when the nocturnal fox is just beginning its day.|
sadeyes120.simplesite.com When my grandfather died, some of his hunting buddies sent my grandmother a massive wreath of silk flowers accented with a toy fox outfitted in full hunt attire, which struck me as perverse even as a kid. What animal would dress up to hunt itself? But the way some hunters talk, the quarry is all but an adjunct member of the club. I heard it over and over again that day: “We’re rooting for the fox.” And I believe them. I truly believe they are as disinterested in killing that animal as any group of humans could possibly be while still pursuing that animal with a pack of trained hounds.