“Heres to you John, may this be the first of many” the group raise their hip flasks.

“To your first” they toast as one.

“I can still remember my first” begins Andrew the hunts master…. “Easter ’68 it was, an early Easter that year for the snow was still capping the Black Hills and the frost hadn’t fully left the ground” the glazed eyes revealing the return of the fond memory.
“That’s 36 years now, and you know it was like yesterday, you never lose that feeling, the thrill it’s always there, everytime you see the head rise and the chase, it’s better than sex John, isn’t it?,

“Yeah ………. Amm ….”, says John shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another.

“Right John, well you know it’s customary for a speech after a first blood”, interrupts Andrew clapping and rubbing his hands before another slug from his silver plated hip flask.

“That’s right John tell us all about it”, demands Simon, vociferously backed by the group.

“Well … what can I say… big Bessy here”, he begins nervously “the best mare I’ve ever sat on, she makes it easy, hard ground soft ground doesn’t matter, Bessy can handle any condition, you always feel safe on Bessy….

“Never mind Bessy what about Basil, it’s the vermin we want to hear about”, interrupts Roger. “Yeah John, when did you see him” “Did he make it back to his hole” “C’mon John lets hear it” encourages the rest of the group.

“Right, well to start, the first fox I saw was a she and she did make it back to her hole but her accompanying cub, never. Bessy had just cleared old Jones’ dyke when the two of them rose from the thicket and ran. Bessy saw them as clear as myself as they turned sharp right, I didn’t have to move an inch, Bessy made it without instruction, using her well honed instinct and reflexes she began the chase. The mother used every trick she had to try and lose us, instinctively knowing her cub would never make their den. Sharp left then right she knew all the moves, but not for one second did I think I would be thrown or that Bessy might lose her footing, I’ll tell you, Bessy could turn, at full gallop, on a frozen pond. The mother put herself between her cub and Bessy but the wee cub, inexperienced and ignorant in the art of survival practically stopped to watch. The mother knew she could do no more and retreated to her den in the hope that the cub might somehow make it, but being confused and young it seemed to loose direction. At this stage the hounds were coming through Jones' dyke. The mother was watching from the den, keening like a banshee when the pack arrived, led by Sparky who hit the cub at full pelt causing the pair to roll through the reeds, locked deeply together at the throat. As the rest of the pack descended on the spectacle one took a leg and another had its brush as they fought in opposite directions. Sparky, like a good pack dog, never let go of the throat, the reeds and grass turned crimson, fur was flung into the air. The cub, hidden among the pack, cried, a high pitched cry, like a human baby. God or some higher power must have shown mercy for the crying stopped. It was over. As I sat on Bessy who noisily chumped on grass and as the dogs yelped with satisfaction, I could hear, in the distance, the mothers keening as it rose to the cold blue sky ……………………. that’s my first”,

“Don’t worry about the vixen John, now we know where the den is Sparky’ll soon flush her out”, ignorantly offers Andrew.

John stares.