The Big Cat Nap

that someone will be with them shortly. Anyone know where Victor is?” Coop added as an afterthought.
    Victor Gatzembizi was the owner of ReNu; besides this one in Charlottesville, there was a large shop in Richmond, one in Virginia Beach, one in Norfolk, and one in Alexandria.
    “No. When we arrived, there was only the office fellow, Kyle.”
    “Okay. Move on out.”
    The deafening siren cut off, which meant one law-enforcement team had just arrived. And soon to follow would be the vans for the TV stations.
    The three friends walked silently through a somber waiting room, where five mechanics sat looking glum and dazed.
    Once in the car, Harry turned north to the next stoplight, then made a legal U-turn.
    In the back, Susan leaned forward. “At least we know we all have strong stomachs.”
    “Farming will give you one.” Harry reached fifty-five miles per hour and held steady.
    “Mmm-hmm,” Susan answered. Though not a farmer, she’d spent plenty of time way back when on Harry’s farm, even when it was owned by Harry’s parents.
    Arms crossed over his chest, Herb’s voice was deep. “It’s always a shock, sad. Even when you find a dead deer. Sad.”
    Harry thought about this. “But no one there was crying.”
    “All men.” Susan spoke as though this was a hard fact of behavior.
    Herb unfolded his arms and reached for the door bolster. “Harry has a point. When something is that shocking, a lot of men would break down or show some emotion other than physical illness. No one would think less of them. It’s not like how workers perceive a woman who cries because her feelings are hurt or she’s frustrated on the job. This is different, and, Harry, you’re right—no tears.”
    “Maybe no one liked Walt.” Susan accepted Herb’s analysis.
    “It’s for sure someone didn’t.” Harry knew she’d remember that split-open head for the rest of her life.

S lanting rays of late-afternoon sun kissed the fields as Harry walked through them.
    “Like butter.” She held her hand over her eyes as a shield. Today, even her summer straw cowboy hat didn’t do the trick.
    Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker listened as the human they loved most rambled on.
    Like most people, Harry happily babbled to her pets. She thought of them as pets. That wasn’t their attitude.
    Mrs. Murphy believed she had to think for both Harry and her husband. They were so slow.
    Pewter considered herself a small gray divinity. She felt no call to think for the humans.
    Tucker knew her job was to protect and defend, as well as to herd horses into or out of the barn. She used to herd humans, but their resistance to canine direction finally broke her of trying.
    “The hay looks good,” said Harry, “especially the alfalfa. I think I can cut it next week. That’s a happy thought. Do you all know I made twenty thousand dollars last year selling hay? Now, I know that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the big hay dealers, but really, really good for me.” She beamed as the slender green blades brushed against her thigh.
    “Smells good,”
Mrs. Murphy noted.
    “Especially when it’s freshly cut.”
Tucker lived by her nose.
    To a lesser extent, so did Pewter. She stopped as she picked up rabbit scent, a fragile aroma. In her booming meow, she called out,
“Mother and baby bunnies passed through, um, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
    “You just figure that out?”
Tucker teased her.
    “I hate you, I really do.”
The gray cat sped through the hay, blew past the dog and cat, and shot in front of Harry, slightly knocking her leg in the process.
    “Pewter.”
    “Faster than a speeding bullet,”
Pewter chanted, having watched the
Superman
movies with Harry.
    “Fatter than a cannonball,”
Tucker called out.
    That insult provoked the gray cat to stop abruptly, puff up like a broody hen with tail like a bottle brush, hop sideways, and hiss loudly.
“Death to corgis.”
    Tucker, knowing Pewter’s temper, fell behind Mrs. Murphy.
    “Thanks,”
the tiger cat drily said.
    “She’s not mad at you.”
Tucker’s ear dropped in apology.
    “Pewter, move.” Harry reached the fearsome cat. “I don’t want to make more paths in the hay.”
    Pewter peered around Harry’s legs.
“Coward.”
    “I am not a coward,”
Tucker called back.
“You’re in one of your moods.”
    “Pewter.” Harry looked down at the cat, still puffed up.
    “All right.”
She smoothed her fur, then walked in front of Harry, her sashay more pronounced than