Puss 'N Cahoots

the result being the horse grew sour or flat. Since a Saddlebred must show with brio, overtraining proved a costly mistake.
    Frances, wearing a peach linen and silk dress with a corsage, turned to her daughter and said, “Joan, did you show the newlyweds Harlem’s Dreamgirl?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    Paul, a twinkle in his eye, twisted in his seat to wink at Fair. “You got the dreamgirl.”
    Fair slapped the older but still powerfully built World War II Navy vet on the shoulder. “I think we both married our dreamgirls.”
    “Paul and I married in the Dark Ages.” Frances laughed.
    “Still a honeymoon,” Paul gallantly said.
    Joan took off her beige silk jacket as the heat bore down. A gorgeous pin, a ruby and sapphire riding crop intertwined through a sparkling horseshoe, graced the left lapel.
    “Joan, did you fix the clasp on that pin?” Frances asked.
    “Yes, I did, and it’s tight as a tick.”
    “Good. You know I think that’s the prettiest piece of my mother’s jewelry.”
    Joan, knowing her mother wouldn’t be satisfied until she had examined the pin, slipped her coat off the chair, handing it to her mother.
    Turning the lapel back, Frances fingered the pin. “Well, that should hold it.” Before handing it back to Joan, she noted the careful work the jeweler had performed. “You know that’s our lucky pin. You wear it when it counts, but always on the last night of the show.”
    Everyone studied their programs.
    “Third class has that movie star in it.” Paul read down the list.
    The third class was the adult three-gaited show pleasure.
    “She’s going to have a tough time beating Melinda Falwell.” Joan folded back her program.
    “Booty’s client.” Paul named Melinda’s trainer, a gregarious man still recovering from a sulfurous divorce last year. The recovery was financial as well as emotional. It was Booty who Harry and Fair had seen walking out of the practice ring.
    Five years ago an intense rivalry set off fireworks in the Saddlebred world as the old guard began to retire or die off, leaving the younger men and a few women in their middle years to come forward in a big way. Larry Hodge, Booty Pollard, and Charly Trackwell had taken up where Tom Moore, Earl Teater, and the late Bradshaw brothers had left off. Pushing behind Larry, Booty, and Charly were men and more women than in previous generations, in their late twenties and early thirties, one of whom, Ward Findley, evidenced special talent.
    Saddlebred trainers rode the difficult horses or the horses in the big classes, which would add thousands of dollars to the horse’s worth if the animal showed well. In the Thoroughbred world, trainers did not ride in the races. Here they did, which gave the shows an extra dimension. It was as if Bill Parcells played quarterback or Earl Weaver stepped up to the plate.
    The amateur riders, coached by the trainers, didn’t necessarily ride easy horses, but usually the horses were more tractable and less was at stake. A win at one of the big shows could send a horse’s value skyrocketing. Few people are immune to that incentive, hence the enduring appeal of the trainer/rider.
    Ward Findley, who was twenty-nine and had close-cropped, jet-black hair and sparkling blue eyes, quickly came up to the Kalarama box, leaned over, and whispered to Joan, “You’d better get to the barn.” Right behind Ward came Booty Pollard, his pet monkey on his shoulder. “Trouble,” Ward continued. The monkey, Miss Nasty, chattered as she peered at everyone in the box. Miss Nasty loved Booty, but she hated his snake collection, which he kept at home. She, at least, got to travel. Fortunately, the snakes did not. Booty did have peculiar tastes in pets.
    Paul, overhearing, stood up.
    “Daddy, you stay here. People need to see you and Mom.” Joan was already out of the box.
    Fair, an equine vet, followed her. Kalarama had their regular vet, but he didn’t attend the shows. The organizers kept a vet on the premises so there was no need for each competitor or breeder to tie up their own vet for the four evenings of the show.
    Not to be left behind, Harry scooped up both cats, her progress slowed by the two unhappy kitties squirming in her arms.
    “If you’d put me down, I could follow just fine,”
Mrs. Murphy complained.
    “She thinks you’ll run off,”
Tucker, excited by the tension in the humans, commented.
    “You’re a big, fat help,”
Mrs. Murphy growled.
    “I’m a dog. I’m obedient.