Puss 'N Cahoots

worth the wait as she watched classes, listening to the cheers. Occasionally someone walking under the tree would feel the light tap of a pistachio hull on their head. Miss Nasty had taken the precaution of grabbing a big bag of pistachios from Booty’s hospitality suite. However, the small hull posed no danger, so no one peered upward into the thick foliage to behold the well-dressed monkey on the top limb.
    Having demolished the entire bag, Miss Nasty felt a powerful thirst. It overcame her prudence, what little there was of it. She climbed down the tree and scurried behind the shops on the midway until she found the back of one of the food booths stacked with soft drinks. Snagging one, she popped the top straight off. The two ladies, as members of a Shelbyville farm club, were serving hot dogs, hamburgers, and French fries and didn’t notice the monkey chugging behind them. Having finished that off, Miss Nasty felt much better. The sugar and caffeine in the soft drink energized her.
    What if Booty did see her? She’d climb to the top of another tree. He’d have to go back to work. She intended to have her moment, so she loped along amid the cries of children and adults.
    Every resident of the 385 square miles of Shelby County had to be at the show grounds. The horsemen knew Miss Nasty. First-timers did not, so she caused a sensation, much to her delight. She even stood on her hind legs, sweeping off her lovely straw hat to a few. They’d approach; she’d fly away. Couldn’t be too sure. Anyone could be an agent of Booty’s. She wanted to parade before Pewter and Mrs. Murphy. Of the two, Pewter sent her blood pressure through the stratosphere.
    She climbed up the rear of the western grandstand. Perching on the high backrest, built so no one would tip over backward, she peeped over the heads down to the Kalarama box, again filling after another sweeping of the ring. The sun had set, and the powerful lights circling the show ring were so bright she could see the tiny dust specks floating upward.
    Night birds bestirred themselves, calling to one another. Moths danced around the softer barn lights, a few immolated on the show-ring lights.
    Miss Nasty climbed back down since people noticed her. She knew her safety rested in height, so she rapidly climbed back up a tree, which afforded her a view. The minute she saw those cats she was going to cavort in front of them.
    The ring, pristine now, filled the air with the aroma of dark loam, the last whiff of tractor gas disappearing. The flowers, dusted off after the dragging of the ring, seemed extra beautiful. The ringmaster strode to the middle, the organist hit the notes, and the two judges—one a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, the other a lady in a flowing dress—stood on the dais, ready to watch each five-gaited horse as it entered the ring.
    The lady judge—a horsewoman, obviously—knew not to wear materials that reflected light, since this caused some horses to shy. Often ladies presenting the trophies wore shiny jackets or glittering evening gowns, and the horse wouldn’t stand still to be pinned or to have the silver trophy raised by its head.
    The crowd held its breath, for this was it. The entire week culminated in the five-gaited open stake. The winner would be the favorite for the World Championship in Louisville, two weeks hence.
    Betting isn’t allowed at Saddlebred shows. No tickets for win, place, or show litter grounds after a class. However, gambling proceeds apace. Is there a horseman anywhere in the world who can resist laying down a wager?
    Money changed hands, as did chits. The extra security hired by the officials patrolled to keep order, not to dampen betting. Good thing, too, or they’d have had to arrest and hold the participants at the high-school football field. No jail would be large enough to contain the multitudes.
    Ward was first in the ring, riding a large, somewhat unrefined bay with great action, Shaq Attack. He smiled to the cheers. Ward wore a tuxedo and looked very handsome.
    Charly, slowed by having to split open the palm of his right glove to make it fit, didn’t worry about time. He’d be up there in two minutes. Before he mounted up, he had Carlos pop the cork of the Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988. Carlos poured the Baccarat fluted glass full, handing it to Charly.
    “I’ll celebrate before I ride and then after.” He knocked it back, handing the glass back to Carlos. The bubbles soothed his cut gums and loose