A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 9: Posers

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!"

To A Louse
Robert Burns

As threatened…er…promised we get to the subject of Posers in this week’s posting. It’s been awhile since I included the Burns quote (above) to underscore the theme and tone of these Typologies. I thought it was time to revisit that quip, portrayed here in the original Burnsian dialect. To get the full effect, try to think of Mel Gibson in Braveheart reciting these lines. (Of course, there might be a few folks who, after reading some of these postings, have been sounding more like the Gibson of late, now known more for his incendiary rants than for his onscreen action.) I’ve also included my Caveat Lector (Reader Beware) variation on the Burns lines. For the best effect here, to most closely replicate my own sonorous tones, I’d recommend Richard Burton’s voice, preferably from his Hamlet period. Alternatively, you could go with Kermit the Frog.

I pray no power the giftie gie them

To see themselves as I do see them.

May readers sing the praise that’s due me,

But none get pissed and try to sue me.

That said, we present…

Posers

The Poser loves the idea of foxhunting a thousand times more than the act itself. She is enthralled by the glamour and pageantry of the sport, enraptured by the exquisite attire and overjoyed to see a photo of herself in top hat and shadbelly coat, elegantly turned out for Opening Meet.

As soon as the toe of her highly shined dress boot slips into the stirrup iron, it all goes to hell. She prays that the hunt is slow-paced with few, if any, jumps. The thought of galloping, especially downhill or over rough terrain, causes apoplectic panic. She will often use the excuse that her horse is tired, has a loose shoe, or is just coming back from an injury to justify retiring early. This usually occurs just as hounds are opening at the start of a blazing run.

One riding instructor described the typical Poser as a “Too Rider." When unable to execute the instructor’s commands, it is always because she worked too late the night before, had to get up too early that morning, her horse is too out of shape, the ground’s too hard (or too soft), the temperature’s too high (or too low), the air’s too moist (or too dry), she’s too sore from her most recent hunting day (even though it was a week and a half ago and she was only out for 20 minutes, having packed it in when the field picked up a canter down a gentle incline which she describes as the side of a cliff).

If she hunts once a week, averaging three hours per hunt, and goes out 20 times per season (enough to say she hunts “regularly”), that’s 60 hours in the field per year. 58 of those hours are likely to be at least uncomfortable and at times filled with shear, nerve-wracking terror. From the master’s opening command “Let’s go hunting!” to the plaintive strains of the huntsman’s horn signaling the end of the day, she just wishes it was over. Why, then, does she subject herself to this torture? Because of the other 8,700 hours in the year during which she can impress her friends, relatives, coworkers, and business clients by subtly dropping references to the fact that she rides to hounds.

To the uninformed she can paint a picture of herself as a bold, accomplished hunter. What the hell, they’ll never actually see her in the hunt field. She knows enough about the terminology and how the sport should be conducted to talk a good show.

There is a clear distinction between the Poser and the hunting lady who knows her limitations. The former suffers from the gnawing disparity between the reality of her ability compared to how she craves to be seen by her fellow hunters. She may be able to fool all of her non-hunting acquaintances, but those who ride with her know the truth. Still, though, she cannot refrain from continuously embarrassing herself by seeking the spotlight and then failing to perform. It must be a most unpleasant way to go through life and one wishes the Poser would experience an epiphany of self-realization. Unlikely, though, that such will ever occur and one can only pity the poor darling for the turmoil she must suffer.

By contrast, the humble hunting lady is happy with any moments of sport she is blessed to enjoy. She does not try to portray herself as anything more than she is: a rider of modest ability, one who does not seek out undue risk, understands the essentials of the sport, and if she is not capable of being among the half dozen mud-splattered Juice Junkies who come straggling in after a four hour hunt, she’ll still be at the tailgate to pleasantly serve them up some much-needed nourishment. She is grateful to be a part of our rarified world and at peace with herself. And for that she ain’t no Poser.

There are no male Posers. Men are too egotistical and insecure. If a man can’t do something well enough to look good at it – if only in his own self-deluded estimation – he won’t do it. That’s why so many men refuse to dance.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 8: Grande Dames

When the Foxhunters Guide blog was launched two months ago, I had not intended for it to become a participatory endeavor. It was, you see, supposed to be all about me, a platform through which I could impress readers with my deft wordcrafting and sage insights. As it turns out, and to my immense surprise, I am not the sole custodian of such talents. Nor am I alone in my inclination to classify our fellow foxhunters according to identifiable typologies. Suggestions continue to come along at a steady pace, some simply one word leads (e.g., “Thrusters”), others fully developed compositions.

We’ve already seen the result of Liz Williams’ tip on “False Staffs,” the nicely done lead-in piece on “The Sponge” from our (still) anonymous contributor, and Harry Kuniansky’s addition to “You might be a foxhunter…” Now comes another complete typology, Gary Mantello’s touching take on that daunting personage many of us have known all too well, the Grande Dame.

Suggestions and contributions are certainly welcome, even if it means the spotlight is not always on your humble blogger. But for a worthy submission, especially one as well-written as Gary’s, I will gladly share the cyber stage so that you may enjoy reading about…

Grande Dames

By Gary Mantello

May I humbly suggest that you cover the most terrifying member of the foxhunting bestiary, The Grande Dame. Grande Dames are a subset of that much-discussed group, the Fashion Police, but they are far more fearsome to the new foxhunter. These formidable women know their place exactly in the social hierarchy of the hunting world. Although they will toady to those few they feel to be grander than themselves, they will never fail to let their inferiors know that despite their best efforts they will never be skilled/fashionable/acceptable enough to be considered true foxhunters – or human beings. Although some Grande Dames are brilliant horsewomen, others are merely competent; all Grande Dames, however, are mounted on perfectly made and mannered (sometimes with the help of about 5ccs of Ace Promazine) equines that are the envy of all. The said equines appear to have an almost preternatural understanding that they will end up on a Frenchman's dinner table should they dump milady in the mud during a hunt. Grande Dame mothers have usually frightened at least one of their progeny into becoming a perfect and perfectly correct rider, an embryo Grande Dame, as it were.

GDs tend to exhibit their recondite social skills in all areas of social life, not just foxhunting. If one proudly tells a GD that young George has just been admitted to Princeton, one will be congratulated before the GD says how sad it is that the school is not what it once was. GDs always get a particular look on their faces when talking to a personage whose last name ends in a vowel.

You get the picture; anything that makes another person feel small provides a frisson of pleasure for this – not to put too fine a point on it – harpy. In short, imagine Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell, the fearsomely haughty matriarch in The Importance of Being Ernest, crossed with a werewolf. A werewolf, mind you, descended from werewolves that came over on the Mayflower.

There is no male equivalent to the Grande Dame. (Grande Monsieurs? I'm grasping for a term here.) If there were, they would get their respective/collective blocks knocked off unless they had won their house boxing championships at Eton.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 7: Strivers

We continue with another excerpt from the Foxhunter Typologies. This week’s posting addresses Strivers, without whom there would be no foxhunting. Ours is not a sport for namby-pambies. Leadership requires an ability to herd cats, act decisively, and show absolute confidence in any situation. Having demonstrated those abilities in less significant arenas (e.g., industry, governance, space exploration, etc.), the Striver sets his sights on the most challenging undertaking of all – leading a group of unruly foxhunters. Those of us not so constructed, we who are content to simply ride among the ranks, are thankful for our dearly beloved Strivers. Which is not to say, however, that we’re above making the occasional comment regarding those whose backsides we have spent many hours observing. And so we present…

Strivers

The Striver is an A personality type writ large. He is supremely self-confident and certain that God has put him on this earth to be a leader of men. The job opportunities for cavalry officers are slim these days but serving as a hunt master is the next best thing. His need for dominance extends beyond the hunting field to include all aspects of club management. He can be the most gracious, charming, delightful person you have ever met, a man you would willing follow anywhere and whose biding you would do without question or hesitation. Or he can be the most overbearing, rude, self-focused, nasty, and dictatorial SOB you’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. These opposing traits are often embodied in the same person.

A lifetime of striving has brought him wealth, property, and position (along with multiple mistresses and at least one trophy wife). His land makes up a substantial portion of the hunt’s territory and without his generous support the club would suffer immensely. He may have even started the club himself and owns the kennels, hounds, and staff residence outright.

Many Strivers are not content to simply lead the field while the hired help hunts the hounds. Instead, they take over this role as well, fully convinced that not one person in the entire world can do the job as expertly as they can. Not only must all people bow to the Striver’s will but so must hounds and horses. The one creature capable of foiling the Striver’s quest for total dominance over all that moves is the fox himself. The need to bring this wily opponent into submission fuels the Striver’s passion for the chase. It may be that the Striver considers the fox alone to be his equal for wits, drive, boldness, and supreme self-confidence in the face of overwhelming odds. In a contest of three dozen foxhounds versus one fox, the Striver will always identify with the fox.

Not every master is a Striver. But every Striver is either a master or is steadily working his way toward obtaining that office. If the current hunt doesn’t offer sufficient opportunity, he’ll either switch to another club more likely to need his redoubtable leadership skills or break away and start his own, appointing himself master and huntsman.

Other than a few lingering old fashioned customs of dress and speech, foxhunting is, for the most part, a gender-neutral sport. The use of the masculine pronoun in the paragraphs above notwithstanding, a woman is just as likely to be a master as is a man. And she is equally likely to fit the Striver profile. Some are even rumored to have testicles. Or wish they did.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 6: The Sponge

"Mr. Sponge declares himself." (John Leech, 1817-1864)

As we’re roughly at the mid-point of the Foxhunter Typologies, I thought it appropriate to note that I am hardly alone in my observations of “types” within the foxhunting world. Virtually all of the typologies consist of a hefty portion of input from acquaintances that have, over the years, remarked on one type of character or another whom they have had the pleasure, amusement, or annoyance to encounter. This process has also led to a composite result. There is no one person who solely represents any of the typologies. If anyone thinks he or she is the single example on which any typology is based, that person is mistaken. Eliminate any individual who may see some aspects of himself or herself in a given type, and there would still be ample resources available to have crafted the exact same depiction.

My involvement in a recent project commemorating the anniversary of a certain sporting association provided me with the unique opportunity to work with every recognized foxhunting club in North America, all 165 of them. Over the three years spent on this project, the resources for typology profiles expanded considerably. While my own hunting experience is limited to a few clubs in the Mid-Atlantic region, I have been gratified to learn that readers from Georgia to Texas to California have echoed the same sentiments about their fellow fox chasers.

As was noted when one typology was posted – False Staffs – the inspiration was not my own, but was suggested by a long-serving whip with far more experience than I have on this topic. In that same vein, a suggestion to embellish the Nouveau Gentry typology has come in the form of a comment submitted by a reader who chose to remain anonymous. And a shame that is because the succinct profile he or she crafted shows an insight and eloquence for which the writer deserves credit. Of course, “succinct” is not my forte so I could not resist taking the germ of the idea and expanding on it. Herewith is the result:

The Sponge

A Subspecies of Nouveau Gentry

From an Anonymous Reader:

“Another more common variety of the Fox Hunting Nouveau Gentry wannabe is a species affectionately known as the ‘Sponge’. The Sponge is a person of little innate ability, limited education, and considerably low motivation to succeed in the adult business world. This person’s sole existence is for the pleasure of the sport and the thrill of the chase – both the two- and four-legged variety. The Sponge knows when opportunity knocks and how to strike. They carefully seek out the recently separated, divorced or widow of the deceased with the means to keep him in the lifestyle for which he believes he deserves. The Sponge cherishes and embraces the material possessions of the former spouse and is more than willing to step into the breach to become the surrogate spouse. He does not wait for the pajamas or the bed to get cold – he moves swiftly and deliberately to occupy the persona of the Nouveau Gentry.”

My Elaboration:

In an effort to help conceal his pedestrian roots, the cunning Sponge attempts to pass himself off as a member of the shabby aristocracy. His hunting kit appears to have been handed down from the time of his great-grandfather, although it was actually bought at the consignment shop. A touch of unkempt hair and laconic drawl add to the illusion that his direct ancestors rode to hounds with General Washington and Billy Lee. This façade facilitates his move from a nameless suburbia to the heart of hunt country, courtesy of the newly unattached recipient of his affections. The masquerade that he is, as our anonymous contributor noted, in his own estimation deserving of the foxhunting gentry lifestyle is further enhanced with well-timed references to how it was in “the old days” (by which he means the latter part of the second Bush Administration).

To further the subterfuge he steers his new paramour toward the formation of fresh friendships with those less familiar with his past. Perish forbid anyone of position in the hunting community should see his actual CV wherein his limited education and spotty employment record are revealed. If at all possible, his highest achievement would be to switch allegiance to another hunting club where a clean slate would allow him to write his own story.

The Sponge’s lexicon gradually progresses in the use of the personal pronoun from “hers” (house, barn, truck, tractor, horses, land, etc.) to “ours” to “mine.”

Yet for all that posturing and obfuscation, it can be argued that The Sponge provides a public service. The foxhunting world is long on unattached women and miserably short on available men. The single man who hunts purely for his own pleasure is a rare commodity indeed. The line-up of ladies more than eager to enter into a partnership is legion. Many of these ladies are already self-sufficient, for one reason or another, and not in need of a provider. What they seek is a companion. And without the demands imposed on those who would be titans of industry, The Sponge has ample time for the quotidian chores of daily farm life as well as adventures afield for foxhunting and other pleasures.

Perhaps the greatest risk faced by the target of The Sponge’s affections is that she will incur the ire of her single friends over her good fortune while they remain alone, still awaiting the arrival of their Sponge Charming. The availability of so many companion-less ladies in the hunting world suggests potential for a new, specially focused matching service. Sponges R Us? eSponges.com? Or, to borrow a bit of inspiration from a local racing syndicate, how about Pelvic Venture?

As our contributor pointed out, the passing of a spouse is one possibility for the vacancy The Sponge now fills. But our astute observer lists separation and divorce ahead of widowhood. This, then, would indicate that someone chose to leave that bed, those pajamas, all those possessions, and the partner herself so that he might pursue options more to his own pleasures. The Sponge is then the grateful recipient of what The Spouse has left behind through his own philandering and malfeasance.

To be sure, the arrival of a Sponge into hunting territory and his immediate posturing as “Gentry” (whether Nouveau or Vieux) is likely to raise a few eyebrows. Some gentlemen who have achieved their positions and possessions strictly through their own hard work and well-applied talents may look askance at this interloper. They see in him the old fable of the carefree grasshopper who has fiddled away the summer of his life while the industrious ant prepared for winter. But unlike the lesson of the fable, now that winter approaches the blasted grasshopper keeps on fiddling while the poor ant continues to struggle onward. It’s just not fair.

You Might Be A Foxhunter If...

If you own a home that is mobile and five cars that aren’t, you might be a redneck.

Jeff Foxworthy

As promised, we take a break from Snarkytown this week and instead toss up some quips likely to cause fewer, if indeed any, ruffled feathers. And possibly a few more chuckles as well. It’s been said that a “highbrow” is someone who can listen to Rossini’s William Tell Overture and not think of the Lone Ranger. In the hunting world, that might be said of anyone who’s never heard of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You Might Be A Redneck” jokes. But, then, it’s likely that anyone who has attained that level of sophistication probably isn’t reading this blog anyway. (Or isn’t even using a computer for that matter.) For the rest of us, this week’s posting consists of some foxhunter variations on the “You Might Be…” theme.

Several of these were inspired by helpful suggestions from fellow hunters (although I was only attentive enough to record one such, from Harry Kuniansky, for a credit citation). But I’m sure there are plenty of creative juices flowing out there that can expand on this concept. So if you feel inspired, please add a comment or email me your suggestions (foxblitzer@aol.com) and we’ll keep adding to the list.

And speaking of suggestions, a helpful (albeit regrettably anonymous) follower recently added a comment under the Nouveau Gentry typology suggesting another category: The Sponge. It’s highly insightful, well written, and will soon appear as the newest addition to the Typology of Foxhunters, most likely next week (with a bit of expansion and elaboration that this contribution deserves).

Now, here are some…

You Might Be A Foxhunter If…

1. You’ve ever been charged with riding while intoxicated.

2. You’ve ever been pulled over on your way to the hunt ball and been asked if the circus is in town.

3. You’ve ever mucked out a stall wearing a tuxedo or an evening gown.

4. You’ve ever peed in a stall while wearing a tuxedo or an evening gown.

5. You have your orthopedist’s private number on speed dial.

6. You can legally claim your vet as a dependent on your income tax forms.

7. You drive a $2000 car and ride a $20,000 horse.

8. The only religious service you regularly attend is Blessing of the Hounds.

9. You think it makes perfect sense that a heavy, dinner-style meal served in late afternoon is referred to as “breakfast.”

10. Your sporting attire is all custom made and the rest of your wardrobe comes from Tractor Supply.

11. You can recite the bloodlines of every hound in your club’s kennels but frequently forget the names of your own children.

12. Gentlemen: You’d rather read Practical Horseman than Playboy.

13. Ladies: You’d rather read Covertside than Cosmo.

14. Your house has a mudroom that’s actually full of mud.

15. You’ve ever been busted for possession of a controlled substance and it turned out to be Ace.

16. You’ve ever run out of Tylenol and used Bute instead.

17. You’ve ever found out that your spouse was having an affair with the huntsman and decided it would be easier to replace the spouse than to find a new huntsman. (Submitted by Harry Kuniansky)

18. You’re only willing to accept a job that allows you to take off at least one weekday from September through March.

19. You can walk through airport security naked and still set off the metal detector.

20. You’ve ever told a paramedic, “If you even think about cutting off my custom-made boots, I will get up off this stretcher and kick your ass!” (To personalize this one, feel free to replace “custom-made boots” with “leather breeches,” “scarlet coat,” or any other garment a thoughtless EMT was approaching with scissors in hand.)

© 2010, J. Harris Anderson

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 5: Saddle Tramps

“There never was a horse that couldn’t be rode;

Never was a cowboy who couldn’t be throwed.”

Cowboy Proverb

This week we reach the halfway point in the Typology of Foxhunters with a consideration of Saddle Tramps. We have here an homage to the hardworking, too often unsung professionals who make up a critical segment of the foxhunting community. God bless ‘em, raise a toast, and pass the liniment!

So far in this exercise we’ve considered Nouveau Gentry, Juice Junkies, Falstaffs, and False Staffs. Still to come are Strivers, Posers, Hodads, Hunters Emeriti, and Chasers. Next week, though, we’ll take a little break with some excerpts from another piece in the Foxhunters Guide collection, “You Might Be a Foxhunter If…”

See the previous postings for my standard poetically worded Caveat Lector (Reader Beware!). And a nod to the wonderful artist Jean Abernethy whose “Fergus” provides this week’s pictorial embellishment.

Saddle Tramps

A few of those out hunting on any given day are professional horse people: jockeys, trainers, dealers, or grooms, as well as most huntsmen and some whippers-in.

The chasm between a pro and the average recreational foxhunter is akin to the gap between a cardiac surgeon and a Boy Scout who just earned his CPR badge. If someone’s paying you to take a horse out hunting, it’s because of one or a combination of several possible reasons.

• The horse is a rank greenie that’s never seen a pack of hounds and when asked to remain calm in the face of an apparent attack by three dozen howling canines may strongly object.
• The horse is fresh off the racetrack, not accustomed to going at a controlled pace behind several other horses, and when asked to do so may strongly object.
• The horse is known to have bad habits, such as kicking or biting, and when reprimanded for such misbehavior may strongly object.
• The horse refuses to cross streams, is unreliable at jumps, won’t stand at checks, won’t load onto a trailer, won’t unload off a trailer, bolts off a trailer like it was shot from a cannon, won’t stand when being mounted, bucks, crow-hops, or rears and when asked, no matter how politely, to refrain from such antics, strongly objects.

Should you ever be asked to work with a horse like this, even if offered a princely sum to do so, I have but one piece of counsel: Strongly object.

It is not hard to spot the pros in the hunt field. They will be the best riders and the most shabbily dressed. No one’s ever gotten rich riding and training other people’s horses. A pro’s clothing takes a severe beating and the pockets of those tattered breeches aren’t stuffed with wads of folding cash to buy new gear.

The pros ride in the back of the field, the traditional position for “servants.” However, while this might seem like they are being relegated to a subservient position, the foxhunting equivalent of the back of the bus, it is usually the safest place to be; not because the horses they're riding are dangerous, but because many of the non-professionals riding in front of them are. You're always better off staying behind those unable to control their horses. And the show can provide a nice bit of entertainment as well.

But despite the sheer enjoyment offered to the pros bringing up the rear, they often retire from the action early. This is likely because:

• The horses they ride aren’t in good enough condition to hunt for several hours at a stretch.
• The horses expend so much energy through their exuberant antics that even supremely fit animals soon reach a point of exhaustion.
• The owner stipulated that he’d like the horse ridden for at least two hours and at the one hundred and twentieth minute the rider punches the clock and calls it quits.
• There’s a string of eight other horses still to be worked back at the farm and daylight’s a-wasting.

There are two horse-related career options under the Saddle Tramps heading: exercise grooms and dealers with horses for sale.

Grooms are paid to take other people's horses out hunting for conditioning and to keep them settled in to the routine. This assures that when the owner goes hunting whatever horse he or she rides is ready to go and will provide a good day’s sport with minimal effort. (What services the groom provides to keep the employer properly conditioned is the subject for another article, possibly by another author.)

The remaining category of professionals consists of dealers – those with horses for sale, either their own or consignments. Used car salesmen have it easy compared to horse dealers. There’s no Kelley Blue Book with generally accepted prices. Take two horses with identical specs and one may be priced two or three times higher – maybe even more – than the other. Cars sitting on the lot don’t have to be fed, don’t require vet services, don’t need shoeing, don’t have to be trained or exercised, and don’t have to be taken out by prospective buyers under conditions where a wheel could fall off, the car could flip over for no apparent reason, or any number of similar disasters could occur, thus not only squashing the deal but lowering the object’s value. Many months and much further expense may be required to restore the asset to saleable condition. Worse still, the asset may be damaged beyond repair.

Some dealers tend to be the prickly type, easily riled by the slightest negative remark about a horse he has for sale. There’s no such thing as enjoying a relaxing day in the hunt field. Every outing is about making contacts and moving product. Horses aren’t the dealer’s buddies, they’re his business. Given that, some prickliness is understandable.

Those of us who lack the talent, athleticism, and courage required to be a professional rider are truly grateful for those willing to take our money and smooth out the rough edges of our beloved mounts. But I will offer up this word of advice to anyone with a desk job who might be tempted to consider entering the world of professional riding: No matter how romantically appealing their life may look, like the carefree cowboys of yore, envy not the path of the Saddle Tramp. Give your cubicle a big kiss and be thankful you can earn a living from the safety of a comfortable chair and not on the back of an explosive bundle of ill-tempered horse flesh.

© 2010, J. Harris Anderson

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 4: False Staffs

“If you can’t say something nice, then sit next to me.”

Alice Roosevelt Longworth

Liz Williams, long-serving whipper-in for Snickersville Hounds, gets the credit for suggesting False Staffs, this week’s excerpt from A Typology of Foxhunters. In case you missed the previous postings, these musings result from my observation of several clearly definable archetypes that make up the community of fellow foxhunters. So far we’ve considered Nouveau Gentry, Juice Junkies and Falstaffs. Still to come are Saddle Tramps, Strivers, Posers, Hodads, Hunters Emeriti, and Chasers.

See the previous postings for my standard poetically worded Caveat Lector (Reader Beware!).

False Staffs

In the old days, especially in England, there was no glory in being “staff.” The whippers-in were the hired help. The pay was lousy, the work was hard, conditions harsh. On the upside, you could develop an extensive vocabulary of abusive language thanks to constant beratings from your esteemed huntsman. If you survived long enough, and learned a thing or two about hunting, you might one day become a huntsman yourself. Then you could be the one berating the next generation of under-skilled kids with severely limited career options.

Now, though, there’s no better way to impress at a hunt country cocktail party then to casually remark, “I whip-in to Leroy Liptschitz at Skunk Hollow Hounds.” A few hunts have perhaps one professional whip serving their huntsman. But the great majority of those filling this role today are “honorary” (i.e., volunteers who do it strictly for the love of the sport).

And if you believe that parenthetical comment, you’re probably wondering why that promised million dollar check from the Bank of Nigeria hasn’t arrived yet.

For many, perhaps most, the motives are pure. But this isn’t about them, the ones who can actually ride well enough, have a sufficient understanding of hound work, know the country, and are willing to put in the countless, and thankless, hours of work at kennels and in the field to make it all come together on hunting days. These are the rare folks who don’t care about titles, accolades, or attention.

Now, in the spirit of Alice Roosevelt Longworth, let’s talk about some others, those who fall into two subcategories: whipper-wannabes and whipper-shouldn’t-bes.

The wannabe dearly covets the status that goes with the office of a whip. She’d love to be seen discussing the day’s first draw with the huntsman, keeping the hounds packed up at the meet, then riding off to her appointed position as the day’s sport begins, preferably doing so by sailing effortlessly over a four foot fence in full view of the entire field. How she yearns to call out, “Staff, please!” and watch as those of less talent obediently move to let her pass, bowing to her superior skills and with the humble knowledge that but for her they would not be enjoying such a fine time of hunting. She longs for the day when, having stopped a split pack through her uncanny ability to put herself in just the right place at the right time, she then leads the errant hounds back to the grateful huntsman, no less than eight couple dutifully following at her horse’s heels. She dreams of being cited by the master in a public forum – and only a huge gathering of members and guests will do – as “an essential member of our hunt staff.” And, of course, there is that sublime self-satisfaction that comes from gazing demurely over one’s mint julep and blushing with the purest humility when a respected member of the hunt says, “We’re so blessed to have you as part of the Skunk Hollow staff, Esmeralda. I just don’t know how we could get along without you.”

Well, dream on, Esmie darling. You’re missing a couple of key ingredients for such visions to ever become reality. Maybe more than a couple. You see, the whipper-wannabe is at best a mediocre rider. She may be unable to get reliably over all the jumps even when led by the master and several others ahead of her. A big, scary fence on her own? Not a chance. What she knows about hounds she learned mostly from Disney cartoons. Ride out into rough country on days when the wind is up, temperatures are dropping, and the sky is threatening to deliver a deluge of rain, snow, or even sleet? You gotta be kidding. Blaze your way through trail-less terrain when hounds are on the scent, ignoring the slicing brambles, smacking branches, and clinging vines that could pull you from the saddle? Um, maybe not. Demonstrate the skill and composure required to send your horse wherever necessary, including such fun schooling opportunities as into an ice-covered stream, past a monstrous piece of farm machinery spewing out smoke and crop debris, calmly walk alongside a paddock filled with high-strung horses, bleating goats, squawking guinea fowl, or – most fun of all – spitting llamas? Well, we came in sixth in the judged pleasure ride, didn’t we? Exhibit the balance to ride with your whip in one hand, pistol in the other, radio tucked under your chin, and the reins in your teeth? Who knew whipping-in could be so complicated? Stay out hours after everyone else is sopping up the last morsels of tailgate fare while you’re still wandering through woods and fields looking for that one damn hound that wandered off? No way. Throw caution and good sense aside when hounds are at risk, running hard toward that dreaded highway, leaping over fences that others wouldn’t even think about jumping so you can head them off before disaster strikes? Gee, maybe whipping-in is a bit more than dear Esmie bargained for.

A few manage to find ways to steal at least a part of their dearly desired “staff appeal.” They may bid at the silent auction on the opportunity to ride with a staff member. If the huntsman is especially shorthanded, he might even be forced to call on the wannabe for some help, assigning her a relatively safe role so one of his real whips can be freed up for more significant duty. In such instances, Esmie will manage to expand that brief role into a full career in her own mind. It’s like the girl who gets randomly plucked from the front row at a Springsteen concert to come up on stage and dance with The Boss for all of two minutes and, forever after, makes it sound like she was part of the tour.

One good thing about the whipper-wannabe: it’s unlikely her unfulfilled longings will ever cause any detriment to the sport. Sadly, the same cannot be said of the whipper-shouldn’t-be. This is the guy to whom the hunt is indebted in some way. He may be a major landowner or a patron without whose support the club would suffer (or dues would have to be substantially increased). He might underwrite the hunt’s races or allow the kennels to operate on his land. Or he may simply be a crony of the master, a good old buddy for whom the master would do anything (read: he knows where all the masters’ skeletons are buried and will either get his way or start blabbing).

Whatever the source of his mighty leverage, the result is that if he wants to be a whipper-in, he’ll bloody well be one. The fact that he has little or no real skill for that office doesn’t count for as much as a hound’s toenail.

The poor huntsman, then, is forced to use him as part of the staff and make the best of it. With any luck, the shouldn’t-be will only want to ride out once in awhile, typically when conditions are pleasant, and might even manage to avoid messing up the sport too badly. Even the best staffers make occasional mistakes, so there’s no reason to expect perfection from a shouldn’t-be. Perhaps he’ll at least attempt to follow the huntsman’s instructions and, if nothing else, ride along the periphery and not try to pretend he’s truly part of the action.

Yeah, right. Can you spell “chutzpah?” If the shouldn’t-be had that much humility and self-awareness, he wouldn’t be a shouldn’t-be in the first place. He’d be happily riding with the field, enjoying the sport, and letting the real staff do their job. The fact that he has no compunction about using his considerable influence, whatever the source, to get what he wants suggests that he’s not about to acquiesce to the huntsman and assume a subservient role. Nope, this guy’s going to insist on being right in the thick of things, the presumed first whip, a hair’s breadth away from taking over the huntsman’s role himself. He’ll think nothing of running right through the pack, taking his own line and turning the fox, halloaing every moving critter he sees without the slightest concern as to whether or not it’s the hunted quarry.

The huntsman may hope that, given the shouldn’t-be’s penchant for hot air, he’ll run out of gas after an hour or two, especially if the sport is brisk. But he didn’t amass all that clout by being a namby-pamby. Nope, he’s out there for the duration, fatigue be damned. He’ll show them he’s as tough a hunter as anyone. Although these guys do seem to have the most amazing bad luck when it comes to horseshoes. Seems like one or more comes off, almost without fail, around the one or two hour mark. Damn, he’d like to stay out and “help” the rest of the day, but his horse can’t continue on without a shoe. So he’d better head in, perhaps let the real staffer who got stuck riding with the field come up and take his spot. He has to get back to the meet, and make sure no one finds that nail puller.

© 2010, J. Harris Anderson