“Doesn’t take much to make them happy,” Pewter noted.
“All horses, cattle, and sheep need to do is put their heads down to eat, walk a bit, eat some more. They don’t have to catch anything,” the tiger cat wisely replied.
“Until there’s a drought or a flood.” The gray cat watched as Shortro, a young horse, performed a pirouette to the snorting of the others.
“Then we’re all in trouble.”
Below, the morning frost, light, coated the world in silver. A ground fog lifted from the back meadows while pockets of mist, also silver, began to rise from the crevices and bowls on this east side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Tucker trotted out the back of the barn, unaware of the cats above. The corgi, watching the horses, sat down. For some strange reason, many humans don’t think animals can appreciate a beautiful day. Tucker, senses superior, could appreciate this perfect fall morning better than the humans. She breathed in the odor of the fall leaves, could smell the bark on the trees, the earth beginning to release the frost. She also knew a small herd of deer had walked behind the barn before daybreak with the pungent, heavy odor of scent mingled in with powder coming up from the fallen leaves. Foxes and deer ate very different food, but foxes, curious and sometimes sociable, might amble along with other species for a time, their sweetish scent trailing the deer scent. Tucker liked foxes, but then they possessed the canine mind. The feline mind was a different matter.
Above her, Pewter pushed out a flake of hay. The rich-smelling hay fell right on target, which made the dog jump sideways.
“Ha.” Pewter laughed.
Tucker turned around, looked upward. “Come down here.”
“Not a chance,” the gray cat fired back.
“A good choice. You’re too fat to run fast for long and I’d catch you.”
“Dream on, Bubblebutt.”
Mrs. Murphy, in no mind to play referee, left the two of them to argue while she walked to Simon, in his possum’s nest. Simon, curled asleep, as he was nocturnal, snored a little. He made a lovely nest in a hay bale, which kept him warm in the winter. Harry’s closing up the barn on the very cold nights helped, but the hay proved a good insulator. He stole rags and towels to create a toasty bed. His treasures, neatly organized, filled his nest, a tube of shiny lipstick, half of an old but colorful crop, bright quarters and pennies, pencils, a purple ball cap in good shape which read Brookhill, a rawhide strip, and his biggest prize, a compact of Harry’s that he filched when she forgot to close the desk drawer in the tack room. When awake he would open and close it, fascinated by the mirror. If Harry missed it she kept the loss to herself.
One eye opened, then the other. “I ate so much.”
“Simon, you smell like sweet feed.” Mrs. Murphy inhaled.
“Half a scoop was spilled in the feed room. Oh, what a treat.” He grinned, half sat up.
“You’ve added some items to your collection.” She patted the golden-hued lipstick tube, rolling it a little.
“Fell out of Susan Tucker’s car. She parks in the same place. I watched from the hayloft. Sunset. The tube glowed. I snatched it the minute she walked into the house.” He grinned.
“Did I tell you she won the club golf championship after being runner-up these last few years? Pewter, Tucker, and I ride in the golf cart sometimes but we weren’t allowed on the course during the tournament. I love to ride in the golf cart.” The cat smiled then changed the subject. “Why do you have a rawhide strip, well, it’s a long one. Harry has plenty.”
“She does, but I found this by the creek. Smelled like bird. And it’s longer than the strips Harry uses to tie stuff together.”
Mrs. Murphy leaned down to sniff the strip. “Nothing left now, just smells like leather.” She hastened to add, “A really good smell.”
“It’s one of the reasons I like being in the barn. I don’t know if I could ever build and live in a nest outside. This is heaven.” He yawned.
Loud voices diverted Mrs. Murphy’s attention. Pewter thundered toward her, then turned around, backing down the hayloft ladder a few moments later, more arguing, barking, hissing.
“I’d better get down there.”
“Murphy, they’re impossible.” The possum curled back up.
“What’s going on? You two settle down or you’re not riding around with me.” Harry emerged from a stall, walked up to the battling pets as Mrs. Murphy climbed down the hayloft ladder.
“She started it!” Tucker pouted.
“Bubblebutt, Bubblebutt, Bubblebutt.” Pewter relished every syllable.
Tucker growled but Harry cut her off. “I’m not taking either one of you and I’m going to The Barracks.”
Tucker’s ears fell, her mouth dropped, distress registered in her gaze. “No, no. Take me. I protect you.”
“Bubblebutt, Bubblebutt.” Pewter rubbed against the corgi’s chest to add to the dog’s torment.
Poor Tucker couldn’t even curl her lip.
“Are you going to behave?” Harry pointed a finger at the dog.
“I’ll do anything, anything to go with you.”
As the dog begged, Pewter, tail vertical, sashayed away from the dog, toward the barn doors. Burlesque music should have accompanied this parade.
Harry turned to watch the cat. “I know you’re behind this.”
Pewter didn’t even turn her head. Kept walking.
“I hate her. I really hate her.” Tucker followed Harry into the tack room, where the human wiped her hands, checked the mirror, full-length on the wall, to brush off hay bits and dust.
She walked out of the tack room, closing the door, and the minute she did so, the mice came out from behind the tack trunk.
Mrs. Murphy walked alongside Harry, keeping in step.
“Murphy, you are the only animal with sense.”
“Thank you,” the lovely, sleek tiger cat replied.
Jumping on the running board, the two cats leapt into the 1978 Ford F-150 when Harry opened the door. She then picked up Tucker, grunted a little at the dog’s weight, placed her on the seat. Tucker refused to look at Pewter so, of course, the cat leaned on her.
Slipping her cellphone under the visor, Harry turned the key, and was rewarded with the rumble of a real, old-fashioned V-8.
Gas mileage had improved, all manner of electronic devices festooned vehicles now, trucks boasted luxury interiors, some of them just over the top, but nothing sounded like a true old V-8 and Harry loved that deep purr.
She popped the truck in gear, down the farm road they drove, deer still in the front meadows, lifting their heads, then returned to feeding.
Once on Garth Road, the thin sunlight streaming from the east lighting some trees still in color, Harry turned left to The Barracks stables, passing Ivy Farms on her right. New, huge homes appeared over the last few decades at the edges of what was once all Garth land. And a high-end development, big wide tree-lined lanes; big homes, all colonial; Continental Estates, filled up the back side, out of sight of the stables. Harry continued on the curving road, turned right by the stables and slowly drove to a two-story clapboard house a mile from the stables, due east.
She’d called ahead of time, filled a basket with Pippin apples as she had a few old-fashioned types. She and Fair filled baskets last weekend for their friends, themselves, and always for their horses as well as those of friends. The Pippin apple, harder to grow than the supermarket varieties, was once highly prized in central Virginia, being a favorite of Queen Victoria.