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road ran into the farm road. It wasn’t plowed out. She would have a long walk to the red fox den. She shouldered a large canister. The two reds, Charlene and Target, lived together and produced many wonderful cubs, most of whom survived, thanks to the care bestowed upon them by Sister and Shaker.
    She wormed the foxes on her fixtures once they were old enough—about four months—to ingest wormer. She would stuff freshly killed chickens or sprinkle it over kibble. She and Shaker wormed their foxes on the same schedule as the hounds, once a month, on the first except for whelping season.
    When possible, the foxes were trapped and administered a rabies shot—no easy task. Trapping the same fox later for the booster wasn’t easy either, but they tried.
    Sister and other Masters of Foxhounds did all in their power to ensure a healthy fox population, but most especially they struggled to break the rabies cycles, which spiked about every seven years. Luckily, foxes didn’t prove to be the vast reservoir of the rabies virus that skunks, silver-haired bats, and raccoons were, but they still came down with this horrible disease. Thanks to Sister’s efforts, the rabies incidence in foxes dropped. Townspeople never thanked foxhunters for their battle against rabies, a battle that benefited them and their pets, but then again, they didn’t know about it. It wasn’t in the nature of foxhunters to advertise.
    The French had invented an oral rabies vaccine not yet available in the United States. Sister hoped it would come to the States soon because it would greatly help her and other foxhunters protect foxes. Trapping took skill and some sense. A fox will bite. If she could instead put a pill in chicken or ground meat, it would make Sister’s mission much easier.
    The mile walk to Target’s den in the woods winded her. Pushing through the snow sucked up a lot of energy. She placed the canister by the den. Most likely neither Target nor Charlene would pop out and show themselves, but nevertheless they had a decent relationship with their human.
    Rarely do a female fox and her mate cohabit. The male may help raise cubs, but he usually has his own place. Still, for whatever reason, these two got along famously, and Target lived with Charlene.
    Sister mused on this. When one reads books about foxes or other wildlife, the information is usually correct. But in nature, as in human society, there are always exceptions that prove the rule. In truth, humans knew much less about foxes than about other animals. Considered vermin by state governments, they weren’t studied. The sheer adaptability of foxes—their high intelligence and omnivorous appetite— meant the fox could change quickly, do whatever it had to do to survive. Then, too, foxes didn’t read books about their supposed behavior. They were free to do as they pleased without fretting over breaking the norm.
    â€œAll right, you two,” Sister called to the reds, “this will get you through the next week. I’ll be coming your way Thursday. You might consider showing yourselves.”
    â€œMaybe,”
Target, huge at sixteen pounds, barked.
    Sister turned back. The snow was even thicker now, heavier, and she’d have to stick to the last cut cornrow to find her way.
    Sister’s senses, sharper and deeper, connected her to her quarry as well as her horses and hounds; in a profound sense, she was closer to certain species of animals, closer than she was to most people.
    Some believed that those who exhibited this unusual closeness had experienced a childhood trauma and that such animal lovers are unable to love or trust other people. But Jane Arnold grew up in a loving home in central Virginia. Her friends were the bedrock of her life. In 1974, when her son died at fourteen, and, in 1991, when Big Ray, her husband, died of emphysema, her many friends and the animals pulled her through.
    Her son, Ray Jr., also called