Рита Браун: Puss 'N Cahoots

Miss Nasty extracted something unpleasant from her nostril, flinging it at Pewter.

The cat lunged forward toward the offending creature, but Miss Nasty leapt off the rail, scurrying toward one of the tractors. Skillfully timing her leap, she landed on the back fender, then reached for the back of the seat and grabbed it to swing onto the driver’s shoulders. He swerved but recovered. He knew Miss Nasty, so he made the best of it.

Booty walked inside the ring. He dangled an enticing piece of orange. At the first pass of the tractor, Miss Nasty was tempted. On the second, Booty turned his back on her to head out of the ring. She succumbed.

Booty swooped her up amid cheers.

“He really is wearing an alligator belt and boots.” Harry gasped.

“You can buy me that for my birthday,” Fair suggested.

“I think I’d better buy a lottery ticket first.” Harry calculated the expense of the boots and belt. Then she saucily said, “My birthday is in five days, but I’ll pass on the boots. Pass on the monkey, too.”

“I’ll kill that monkey,” Pewter fumed.

“You say that about everything,” the tiger teased.

“I will!”

“You’ll have to brave boogers to do it,” Mrs. Murphy warned.

“Or worse.” Tucker appeared solemn.

“You just wait and see.” Pewter ignored the teasing.

Harry dropped back to her hands and knees again, looking on the wooden floor of the box. “I swear I’ll find your pin, Joan. You know how I get. Don’t despair.”

The air-conditioner hum awakened Harry, who was accustomed to sleeping with the windows open at home, the only sounds being that of the night. Fair, flat on his back, had one arm draped over his massive chest, the other by his side. He slept hard, but like most people in medicine, one ring of the phone and he’d be wide-awake.

Pewter snored slightly as she curled up next to Mrs. Murphy. Tucker, on her side by the bed, didn’t lift her head when Harry got up.

However, as their human friend pulled on jeans, T-shirt, socks, and sneakers, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker opened their eyes. Pewter remained dead to the world.

Harry slipped into the bathroom, closed the door, and clicked on the light so as not to wake her husband. She left him a note, which read:

Honey,

Couldn’t sleep. Took the truck. I’m going to Barn Five. I’ll probably be back before you wake.

Love,

Miss Wonderful

Then she crossed out “Miss” and wrote above it “Mrs.” She propped the note against the mirror, using her makeup bag to hold it.

She clicked off the bathroom light, then felt her way to the hotel-room door. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, eyes better in the dark than Harry’s, walked out with her.

“If you’re going, we’re going.” Tucker blinked, still sleepy.

“Pewter will have a cow.” Mrs. Murphy giggled, for the gray cat hated to miss anything, even though she hated to cut short her beauty sleep.

Harry unlocked the door of the F-250, Fair’s vet truck, where his medicines, needles, and gauze were locked in a special made-to-order aluminum trunk bolted to the truck bed. Most equine vets used a similar system, since they needed to call on their patients more than their patients called on them. Many a time Fair spread a large plastic sheet on a level part of a pasture and operated on the spot. This ability to act instantly saved lives.

Harry grumbled that they’d spend a fortune in gas driving the eight hours, first to Springfield, home of Kalarama Farm, then on to Shelbyville. They did, but Fair wanted to be able to assist should a crisis occur. Each time they pulled up to the pump, it cost eighty dollars. Harry swooned, then recovered. Fair shrugged, paid the bill, and said the whole world would suffer for depending on oil.

As neither of them had a ready-made solution to this spectacular global crisis, they kept rolling down Interstate 64.

As the big V8 turned over, the clock on the dash read “one forty-five.” Harry adjusted the seat. The truck’s captain chairs could go up and down, forward and back, and even alter firmness of the backrest. The pedals could go up and down to adjust to leg length. The truck beeped when one backed up close to any object. Despite sucking gas, the machine thrilled Harry. She drove a 1978 Ford truck, and a few years ago Fair, hoping to win her back, helped her purchase a dually to pull her horse trailer. But her everyday drive was the half-ton pickup, which was a far cry from this tricked-out hunk of metal. However, she loved her old truck. Harry was loath to part with anything that still promised usefulness. Her sock drawer testified to this.

She allowed the motor to warm up, then pulled out of the Best Western parking lot, passed the not-yet-open Wendy’s and the tractor dealership she wanted to visit, and turned right on the old main road, Route 60, which connected Louisville to Lexington. Then she turned left at the intersection and drove less than a quarter of a mile to the main parking lot by the practice arena. Charly Trackwell rented stalls in that lower barn. No one stirred, so she drove on the empty paths to Barn Five. She cut the motor and opened the door so Mrs. Murphy could hop out. She lifted Tucker down.

Barn owls flew in and out of the various barns. A whip-poor-will called in the bushes. A horse nickered when she walked into the barn.

Jorge, wide-awake, greeted her as she stepped into the aisle.

“Señora Haristeen.”

“Jorge, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d check on the horses along with whoever was on watch.”

Jorge, in his late thirties, hair already salt and pepper, nodded, a smile on his creased, strong face.

Wordlessly, she followed him as they checked each stall.

“Jorge, how much is Point Guard worth?” She stopped to admire the five-gaited young stallion, who was being introduced to the show world this season. Along with the normal three gaits of walk, trot, canter, Point Guard could do the slow rack and the rack, a specialized gait where the horse lifted his legs high and up. A horse needed an aptitude for this, as well as all the additional training. The effect, when correctly done, was akin to watching a great ballerina leap and seem to hover in the air both effortlessly and endlessly. The rack showed off rhythm, balance, and power.

“Mmm, right now, maybe three hundred thousand.” He admired the animal.

Shelbyville would be an important step in Point Guard’s career. Joan and Larry hoped as he matured he’d be outstanding, for he had the conformation, action, attitude, and will to win.

Harry marveled that the horses could keep their concentration with thousands of excited humans so close to them that those on the rail could reach out and touch the horses. Of course, if anyone ever did anything so foolish, they’d be thrown out of the Saddlebred world forever. Still, the proximity of the spectators to the competitors was extraordinary and not duplicated in other sports. Football, baseball, hockey, and even basketball kept the fan at a distance from the athlete. Golf and cycling were two of the few sports where a person could get close to the real action. Even in hunter–jumper classes, humans had been moved farther away from the show ring, except for local shows, where the feeling of closeness, conviviality, and personally knowing the riders and horses still prevailed.

Money changed sports. While it improved spectacle and competition, the fan began to be regarded as a necessary evil. There was money enough in the Saddlebred world if you were good, but the fans were part of the extended family. No matter how big the shows, they kept their hometown feel.