I am the hound.
I was born on cold stone. No warmth, no blanket. Just concrete, damp and grey. Mum licked me clean, tucked me close. She named me Buddy.
There were six of us. I remember the warmth of our bodies piled together, bellies full, our little legs twitching in sleep. We didn't know the world yet. Only milk, and Mum's low hum. And the thump of boots passing the kennels.
Benji was the smallest. He didn’t last a fortnight. They said he was weak. Mum cried for him when they took him.
We learned to run before we learned to rest. The yard was crowded, loud. So many hounds. So many rules. If you didn’t learn quick, you vanished. I learned quick.
Mum was tired. Always tired. Her body sagged, but she still curled around us at night, still licked our ears and whispered, “Be good. Be quiet. Do what they say.”
When we were strong enough, they took us out. We ran behind the huntsman, chasing scents, obeying shouts and cracks of the whip. We weren't allowed to follow the squirrels, or the rabbits, or the cats. Barney couldn’t help himself. One day, he caught a cat. After that, he was gone.
They called it “training.” They called it “the work.” But we just ran, confused, scared, eager to please.
Then came cubbing.
They brought us to a small wood, just after dawn. The grass was wet, the air thick with the scent of fox. My heart pounded. The older hounds barked and surged forward.
A fox burst from the bracken - small, red, terrified. Not much older than me. The pack tore into it. Blood sprayed. Bones cracked. I froze.
“Go on then!” the huntsman shouted. The whip snapped. Buster lunged first. Bailey followed. I didn’t want to. But I did.
It tasted like metal. Like fear.
That was the day Bailey babbled too much - yelping and howling in all directions. The men said he was useless. By nightfall he was gone.
Bonnie - sweet Bonnie - she just wandered. Wanted to sniff the world. She slipped away one day and found the road instead. We never saw her again.
Buster hurt himself jumping a fence. Kept running until he collapsed, trying to be a good boy. The wound turned black. They didn’t take him to the vet. Just behind the shed.
And then there was me.
They called me “a good lad.” Said I had promise. I ran when they told me. I turned when they shouted. I ignored the wrong smells. I listened. I pleased.
Six years. That’s how long I worked. I didn’t question. I didn’t wander. I never chased a cat.
Then one morning, no hunt. No harness. Just a gentle pat and a lead.
He took me behind the kennels. I followed, wagging.
I didn’t come back.
Cub hunting isn’t just about the horror inflicted on fox cubs - it’s also about the tragedy of dogs like Buddy.
Your gift today can help bring an end to cub hunting.