Archie was a fox. He had not always been a fox. But he had always been foxy. So it was only natural that he would eventually become a fox.

       Ivan was a hound. He had not always been a hound. But he related to hounds better than to humans. So it was only natural he would eventually become a hound.

       “It feels like midnight,” Archie said. “Ivan will be expecting me.”

       The young vixen nestled beside him protested. “It’s cold out there. I could use some extra warmth.”

       “You’ll be fine. We’ve got ourselves a lovely den, snug and dry, out of the wind, structurally sound. The groundhog that dug it did a great job, a feat of geotechnical engineering. It’ll be a lovely place to raise our kits.”

       He stood up and stretched. “Maybe I’ll swing by that new barn on the way home. Those people haven’t figured out how to mouse-proof their horse feed yet and the little buggers are having a field day. Maybe I’ll bring you a treat for breakfast.”

       “You still live for the chase, don’t you?”

       “Chased or chaser, I do love the sport.”

       She curled up into a tight ball. “All right. Have fun with your old hound buddy.”

       He scrambled up to the den’s opening, took a quick look around, saw nothing that posed a threat, and trotted off.

            A short time later, a long low building with a wide wrap-around porch came into view. At its core was a cabin formed by thick timbers. It was the first structure built on the property, when Virginia was a colony of the British crown. A plaque mounted beside the front door attested to its credential as an historic landmark. Over the centuries, wings had been added and a recent renovation had converted the structure into a clubhouse for the Skunk Hollow Hounds. The club’s kennels were situated a short distance behind, down a slight incline that offered good drainage and protection from the wind.

A modest but adequate banquet room occupied one end of the clubhouse. At the other end was a cozy parlor that served for overflow at social gatherings. The wood-paneled walls were covered with a multitude of photos chronicling the hunt’s hundred-year-plus history: Opening and closing meets, Blessing of the Hounds, riders on sleek Thoroughbreds jumping coops and stone walls, gleeful scenes at hunt balls and railside at races. Most of the photos featured Skunk Hollow members, past and present. But several included guests from other clubs, some from other countries, and members hunting and partying elsewhere surrounded by the local hosts.

A stone hearth was framed in by a carved mantlepiece on which another dozen framed photos sat.

A door at the back of the room was fitted with a swinging panel, large enough for a hound to slip through. After many years as the pack’s lead strike hound, the Skunk Hollow leadership chose to gift Ivan with a special retirement package. A large pet door was installed to allow access to the clubhouse parlor, a cushy dog bed was placed close to a heating vent, and Ivan was free to come and go as he pleased. 

            Archie slipped in through the swinging door and found Ivan curled up on his cushion, snoring lightly. Archie marched over, lifted a paw, and smacked him on the nose.

            “Wake up, ya old hound! Time for the game to begin.”

            The hound’s head jerked up. “What time is it?”

            “Time for me to best you in the new contest we’ve devised.”

            Ivan stood up and shook himself, his long ears flapping. “We’ll see about that. But first, let’s review the rules.”

            “You always were a by-the-book type,” Archie scoffed. “But, okay, we’re calling the game ‘Name That Hunter.’ We take turns coming up with a description of someone we knew from our human days, when you were the Huntsman and I was the Master. It could be a member of our own hunt, or someone we both knew from another club. We have to give the description a name, a ‘type’ if you will, and craft a profile that paints a portrait of that person. The other one then tries to identify someone who fits that profile. In some cases, multiple people might fit the ‘type.’ But only one has to be cited to fit the description. The candidates are limited to those shown on the walls here.” The fox gestured toward the photos that covered nearly every square inch of wall space in the room. “We take turns until we run out of people to describe. Whoever comes up with the most ‘types’ wins.”

            “A lot of candidates to sort through,” Ivan said, scanning the mass of photos arrayed around them. “Our years as Master and Huntsman lasted nearly five decades. That covers well more than half of these photos.”

            “Yep,” Archie replied. “And I remember every season—every hunting day actually—in vivid detail.”

            “Like hell you do. But I reckon we’ve both got enough memories to make this game work.” Ivan scratched at his cushion, plumped up his nest, turned around three times, sat down, and said, “And you get to go first. Master, the floor is yours.”

(Claudia Coleman Sketches)