Puss 'N Cahoots

stall. Harry walked beside her. They didn’t speak until emerging on the south side of the barn.
    “Maybe he’s hard of hearing.” Harry couldn’t imagine any other explanation.
    “He’s not,” Joan replied.

H orse people try to get most chores finished before the heat builds up. Lazy, puffy clouds slowly moved west to east, a shimmer could already be detected, and heat wiggled in the air by nine. It would be a scorcher.
    The long hoof of the Saddlebred, cultivated for the high-stepping, long-strided animal, ensured shoes would be thrown. In each barn, blacksmiths prized for their skill bent over, hoof on their knees. Heat or not, horses needed shoes. Feed dealers talked to owners, pressing free samples and supplements on them. Delores from Le Cheval, an elegant tailoring establishment, arrived with a gorgeous long navy blue coat for Renata. She left it in the changing room, feeling it would be secure since the Kalarama staff was in evidence. Grooms, handlers, vets, trainers filled the barns; the place hummed like the backstretch at the track.
    Harry, Fair, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat on an old checkerboard oilcloth under the shade of a hickory. Fair had brought breakfast muffins, jams, and honey, which he spread out on the oilcloth.
    “I’ll chew through your collar if you chew through mine,”
Mrs. Murphy offered Pewter.
    “But the color of mine looks so good against my fur.”
The vain gray cat wore a turquoise collar, the leash matching the color.
    “You’re mental.”
Tucker watched a swarm of no-see-ums swirl upward, then move along.
    Renata DeCarlo drove a new Dodge half-ton, which she parked. Collecting her extra derby and her makeup bag, she walked by the group, stopping to pet Tucker.
    “Delores left your new coat in the changing room,” Harry told her. “Congratulations on pinning third last night.”
    “Thanks.” Renata smiled. “I needed the workout, and Voodoo gave it to me.”
    “You’re so pretty.”
The corgi’s soft brown eyes scanned the young woman’s face.
    “I think animals have their own language.” Renata, friendly, paused.
    “Sit down,” Harry offered. “We have hot coffee, lemonade, or iced tea, and I bet if you want to spike it there are any number of people in these barns to help you out.”
    “Thanks. I’d love a lemonade.” Renata smiled at the suggestion of spiking her morning drink and sat on the oilcloth, demurely crossing her legs. “I don’t drink.”
    “Me neither.” Harry liked Renata, wondering if someone in her position could ever hope for a fulfilling life.
    It wasn’t the actress’s fault so much as everyone wanting something from her: her body, her time, her money, her work for a good cause. The reality, which eventually smacked every intelligent person cursed by fame, was that few people really wanted
you.
They only wanted what you could do for them.
    The cats stared at her. She stared back, then laughed. “Who’s the cannonball?”
    “Pewter.” Fair grinned.
    “I am not fat. I have big bones.”
This had become the gray kitty’s refrain over the years.
    “And who is the one with the incredible green eyes?”
    “Mrs. Murphy. Both of these girls used to work for the federal government.” Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears while Pewter kept staring at Renata, trying to decide whether to do something hateful after the cannonball remark.
    “In the post office,” Fair added. “They helped sort the mail, they rolled the mail carts around, they knew everyone’s mailbox.”
    “Is this their vacation?” she asked.
    “No. We quit when a big new post office with lots of rules was built. Before that, the P.O. was a small building with a counter and brass mailboxes.” Harry sighed. “It was so cozy. Well, I digress. Sorry. Anyway, new post office, new rules, no cats or dogs in the building.”
    “I’d leave, too.”
    “My wife was the postmistress.” Fair liked saying “my wife.”
    “Aren’t you kind of young for that?” Renata smiled a gleaming, megawatt smile.
    “Uh,” Harry faltered, “I’m about forty. Almost,” she hastily added.
    “Forty for an actress is tough. Roles dry up. Magazines run articles on the star’s fitness routines. It’s unbearable. I don’t mean turning forty, I mean the way everyone reacts.”
    “Miss DeCarlo, in your case people will react no matter what your age. The only reason you aren’t mobbed around here is this is a horse show, and horse people are different,” Harry