23
Jesus Christ, what are you, jet-propelled?” Tavener exploded.
“We got a situation,” Jerome glumly pronounced.
“You’re damned right we do. We have an animal-control officer who’s a few bricks shy of a full load,” the veterinarian rancorously said.
The sun, brilliant today, illuminated the tiny broken veins in Tavener’s face, testimony that he’d lived a convivial life. Declaring every day a celebration, he delighted in bending his elbow.
“Paperwork.”
Tavener—called by Fair, who had been called by Harry—expected Jerome to show up at his office door, but not two hours after harassing Harry and then Blair Bainbridge. Fortunately for Tavener, his office manager, Tim Fornay, was equal to the challenge and had assembled the paperwork on every stallion and mare at Dr. Heywood’s breeding establishment. As an extra caution, Tim had also printed out rabies documentation on every equine patient.
Tim rose from his command station, a long and high desk to the left of the front door. He watched out the front window as the two men spoke. Then he called Ramon in the breeding shed, warning him that Jerome Stoltfus might stick his nose in their business. That meant, get your green card out and ready because, although Jerome had nothing to do with the Immigration and Naturalization Service, he was an official of Albemarle County and lived to throw his weight around.
Ramon told Tim, “No problem,” and returned to the business of packaging sperm straws in blue plastic cylinders crammed with dry ice. These would be picked up by FedEx and would arrive at their destinations by ten the next morning.
Those thoroughbreds to be registered by the Jockey Club had to be bred by a live cover, meaning the stallion literally covered the mare. However, those people breeding for hunters, eventers, steeplechasers, foxhunters, or even dressage saved the time and worry, to say nothing of the expense, of hauling their mares from Colorado or New Hampshire to Virginia. This way they could inseminate their mares without all that hassle and without the risk always attending a live cover. Stallions could get their legs broken by mares who found them singularly unattractive. By the same token, stallions could savage mares. Fortunately, such incidents were rare, but anyone who had ever been in the breeding shed when they occurred never wanted to see one again and often counted themselves lucky to get out in one piece.
Recently the technology had advanced so that, instead of pulling blood for blood-typing, a saliva swatch from the horse would do to prove the validity of the breeding. The Jockey Club instituted blood-typing in 1977, which was superseded by DNA testing in 2001. Before 1977, the true reason for a live cover was it was too easy to cheat, particularly those people green to the horse business. An unsuspecting owner would send his or her best mare to a good stallion without someone to watch the breeding, and would pay a whopping fee, only to have her bred to a lesser stallion. Even though a live cover was supposed to guarantee the legitimacy of the mating, unscrupulous people took advantage of the situation until 1977. After blood-typing was demanded, cheating became more difficult.
The racing industry spawned bloodstock research companies, often using different criteria, which would present you with the best match for your mares. One paid for this expertise. Some people have a breeding gift; by watching horses, by reading pedigrees, they come up with good breeding matches. No amount of computer research could substitute for that “feel.”
Jerome Stoltfus, to his credit, knew that. He’d broken up enough puppy mills, saved enough mistreated horses to recognize a good animal from a sorry one. Nine times out of ten, it was the ill-bred animal that suffered.
He also knew that Tavener Heyward kept excellent records. But he wasn’t going to back down in front of Tavener. The distinguished and successful veterinarian would roll right over county officials. Jerome wasn’t going to be one of them.
“Tim’s got all the paperwork ready for you. Jerome, I’ve got to get up to Fox Glen Farm.” He reached into the open window of his truck, pulling out a leather notebook with a zipper around the outside. He unzipped it, sliding out a business card from the side flap. “Here. My cell-phone number is on there, as well as my pager. If it’s an emergency, call. If you see any equine you think might have rabies, call.”
“You think we got an epidemic?”
“I think we should all err on the side of caution.”
“Right.” Jerome squinted as Tavener hopped in his truck and drove off. Then he walked into the office.
“Mr. Stoltfus. Here you be.” Tim jovially walked out from around the desk, his arms filled with four huge manila folders closed with thin string.
“Great day.” Jerome held out his arms.
“Dr. Heyward thought you should have the records of every horse we have inoculated. The dates are clearly marked, as is the batch number of the vaccine. If, for any reason, you need a vaccine traced, we can get right back to the pharmaceutical company.”
“Right.” Jerome couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked back out the door when Tim opened it. He placed the bulging large folders on the hood of the white county car, a Jeep, the county emblem emblazoned on the side. He opened the door to put everything on the passenger seat, already full. He decided to put the materials on the floor.
The sun glistened on the running-horse weather vane on Heyward’s stable, which shifted ever so slightly, indicating wind was coming up from the southwest.
“Hmm.” Jerome watched the arrow point of the weather vane sway back and forth gently. “Hmm.”
A wind from the southwest usually meant fierce, soaking storms.
Ramon walked out of the breeding shed.
Jerome closed the door of the car, sauntered over, and demanded to see Ramon’s green card, which the Mexican happily produced. Ramon, smart and hardworking, smiled as Jerome read the card and handed it back to him.
Without another word, Jerome Stoltfus got in the car and drove to the next farm.
Jerome, irritating and not the most intelligent man, had two things going for him. He knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He knew that in first grade, so he studied harder. And he retained everything he ever learned or ever saw. It would take him nights of labor to go through every single file from every barn he visited. He would write down batch numbers, he would cross-reference, he would use his computer, too. But he would make certain things were as they should be. And that was the other thing Jerome had going for him: He truly wanted to do a good job. He wanted to be the best animal-control officer in the great state of Virginia.
24
Four black-type mares in foal to four very good mid-Atlantic stallions—Fred Astaire, Corporate Report, Wayne County, and Allen’s Prospect—along with the redoubtable Binky, grazed in Harry’s upper paddock. Black-type didn’t mean the mares were black but referred to heavier black type printed on their papers, signifying graded stakes winners in their pedigrees. The more black type, the better the pedigree, on paper, anyway.
Poptart, Tomahawk, and Gin Fizz leaned over the fence, wildly curious about the newcomers.
“Pretty well-made mares.” Tomahawk judged the looks of Loopy.
“Pretty is as pretty does,” said Gin Fizz, a foxhunter admired by all who saw him in the field.
“Well, all these girls have to do is produce good foals.” Poptart winked. “Guess not Binky. She’s ancient.”
“We will,” called out Countess Cool, a 16.1-hand liver chestnut, a very eye-catching girl.
“Who are you calling ancient?” Binky snorted.
Harry and Fair sat on the fence line, watching the horses. With Paul de Silva’s help, they’d loaded the mares that represented all of Barry and Sugar’s worldly investments. The cost of the mares plus the stud fees totaled $62,000, a modest sum by the standards of Lane’s End Farm in Lexington, Kentucky, but quite a lot for two young start-ups in Crozet, Virginia.
Paul also packed up blankets, tack, bandages, meds, and even a set of jockey silks. Since Fair and Harry wor
ked all day and Paul’s hours could be somewhat flexible, he’d asked Big Mim if he could go over and pack up. She readily agreed and was touched that he wanted to help. She was beginning to realize that Paul was a good man as well as a good horseman.
Harry would tackle unpacking everything and finding a place for Barry and Sugar’s equipment tomorrow after work.
This evening, the fireflies darting over the creek, she sat on the fence, her arm around Fair’s waist. Emotionally worn, she said nothing, nor did he. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat below them. Harry wasn’t one to discuss her emotions, so the silence was natural.
Pewter’s fascination with the new mares lasted for ten minutes, and then she trooped back into the kitchen and stuck her face in a bowl of crunchies, tuna-flavored, her fave. She then curled up on the old club chair in the living room. She had to wedge next to The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon, Volume I, which Harry was rereading. Harry loved to read well-written history, and Gibbon’s prose filled her with awe. Pewter could not have cared less about what happened to the Romans. As far as she was concerned, it was cats that kept the empire thriving for a thousand years. Cats guarded those grain shipments from Egypt. Yes, cats were responsible for the rise of all civilizations.
Mrs. Murphy leaned next to Tucker. The two friends loved each other dearly.
The corgi said, “Think she’ll ever figure it out?”
“What happened to Mary Pat or who killed Barry?”
“No. That she belongs back with Fair.”
“Oh, that.” The tiger rubbed her left paw over her whiskers. “Humans are singularly stupid about love.”
25
The cool damp of the dew tingled underneath Mrs. Murphy’s paws. The Big Dipper, high overhead at two in the morning, sparkled against the night sky.
The tiger cat left everyone asleep in the house. Pewter’s snoring kept her awake, but she probably would have gone outside for a brief prowl, anyway. The scent of rabbits, possums, even the steady slick trails of earthworms in their ceaseless toil beckoned her. She was, after all, a nocturnal creature who had altered her habits to work with her human.
Simon, the possum, shuffled out of the tack room as Mrs. Murphy entered the center aisle.
“Tootsie Rolls.” He triumphantly chewed on the delicacy.
“You’re as bad as Mom. How can you eat that sugary junk?” Mrs. Murphy preferred—craved—meat, raw or cooked, although occasionally she would eat the tender tip of asparagus.
“It’s so-o-o good.” His eyes closed in gustatory pleasure.
The sounds of merriment floated out from the tack room. Mrs. Murphy’s pupils now expanded to give her a terrifying appearance. She tore into the tack room. A convention of mice played with Tootsie Roll wrappers and bits of grain.
Screaming, they scurried for their hole, cleverly hidden behind a small aluminum tack trunk.
“Mass murderer!”
Mrs. Murphy growled at their opening, “Death to all mice!” She sat down and in a more reasonable tone instructed, “Now, listen, you worthless mammals. You promised me you wouldn’t make messes here or in the feed room. Look at this. This is shameful. I’m going to have to kill a few of you and leave your corpses on Harry’s desk here. Otherwise, I’ll be out of a job.”
“You surprised us,” answered the head mouse, Arthur. “We always clean up. And furthermore, we didn’t throw the wrappers around. Simon did.”
“I did,” Simon confessed as he joined the tiger cat. “But I don’t have to clean up, because the mice do it. Anyway, I leave some Tootsie Rolls. I keep up the deal.”
Excited chatter wafted out from behind the tack trunk. A little nose stuck out, tiny black whiskers swept forward, followed by a pair of jet-black eyes. Arthur, an older fellow, spoke. “Mrs. Murphy, there won’t be one wrapper on the floor tomorrow morning, nor will there be a single kernel of grain. Not one.”
“You can start cleaning now.”
He looked up at the beautiful cat staring down at him. “What do you take me for? A perfect fool?”
“I’ve kept my end of the bargain,” Mrs. Murphy protested her innocence.
“That’s true. You haven’t killed one of us in years, but you’ve wreaked havoc among the field mice. If their population drops, you’ll be in here slaughtering us.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen.” She feigned indifference, then with lightning reflexes swept her paw down and snagged Arthur, hauling him up on the tack trunk. “Worm.”
Although terrified, he wasn’t going to beg for his life. Great consternation could be heard from behind the walls.
Simon, not much for killing since he preferred sweets and grain, opened his mouth. Only a squeak escaped.
Mrs. Murphy cackled with glee.
Arthur’s wife, a plump little mouse, hopped up on the tack trunk. “If he’s going, I’m going!”
“Martha, think of the children,” he pleaded.
“You have so many of them, which brings me to my next demand. Slow down, will you? If there are too many relatives here, I’m going to have to cut down the numbers. Harry doesn’t have the money to feed every mouse in the county. My job is to see that she doesn’t waste money feeding the likes of you. You get the gleanings, but show some sense.”
Martha defiantly scolded, “We do not breed beyond the food supply. That’s more than I can say for humans!”
“Harry is the exception that proves the rule.” Arthur hoped to soften Martha’s words, as Mrs. Murphy fiercely loved Harry.
Mrs. Murphy batted Arthur with her other paw. Martha valiantly charged the larger predator.
“You bully!”
That fast, Mrs. Murphy pinned down Martha. To her great satisfaction she had a mouse underneath each paw. “I’ll let you go if you promise a complete cleanup, including the dust balls behind this tack trunk. I don’t care if you made them or not.”
“Agreed.” Arthur wriggled.
“No more babies this year, and no chewing tack!”
“We have never chewed tack!” Martha, indignant, spat.
“See that your good behavior continues.” Mrs. Murphy swatted them off the tack trunk like two hockey pucks. Then she left, Simon waddling after her.
“You are so fast. I don’t think there’s another creature as fast as yourself that isn’t in the cat family.” The gray possum with his hairless pink tail was anything but quick.
“Foxes are fast, but we hunt the same game. That’s why we don’t get along.”
“There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Now. But in bad years we have to fight for our territory.”
“But, Murphy, you don’t need a hunting range. You have good food in the house and at work, too.”
“It’s a matter of principle.” Mrs. Murphy walked out onto the pea-rock drive.
“Where are you going?”
“To the fox’s den.”
“Oh, is there going to be a fight? I don’t want to get in a fight.”
“Simon, go eat your Tootsie Rolls and make sure those mice get to work.” Mrs. Murphy burst into a flat-out run from a standstill.
Simon watched. He wished he could do that. Any human with that ability would be signed as a halfback by a professional football team for millions of dollars. Of course, Mrs. Murphy would still outrun the player.
The cat ran for the sheer joy of running. Her long, fluid strides covered the ground, her paws barely touching the slick grass. Within five minutes she stood outside the fox den, secure in the stone base ruins of what had been the old spring house.
Since gray foxes keep a modest entrance, the large mound in front of the den announced the presence of the red fox.
The vixen, with characteristic intelligence, had selected a den on high ground, secure from the weather and within a leisurely walk to the strong-running creek dividing Blair Bainbridge’s and Harry’s property. This was the west side of Harry’s property. A family of gray foxes lived near the eastern boundary, so the two types of foxes ra
rely conversed and never competed against each other. It was a good working arrangement.
A young cub peeped out at Mrs. Murphy. “Momma, a tiger!”
Mrs. Murphy laughed to herself, then called out, “It’s Mrs. Murphy.”
The sleek vixen, shedding her undercoat, came outside. Four little red heads popped up to listen, their luminous eyes wide in wonder at this exotic, striped creature.
“How are you?” The vixen minded her manners.
“Well, and yourself?”
“Healthy, thank you.”
Mrs. Murphy used to spit and fuss whenever a fox was near, until one cold night years back, when a bloodthirsty bobcat had come down off the mountain since game was scarce. This terror chased Mrs. Murphy, and the cat only escaped death thanks to this fox den. Even Tucker had ducked in, squeezing herself next to the fox. That night she was as close to a bobcat as Mrs. Murphy ever wanted to be. Since the truce was in effect, Mrs. Murphy dutifully informed both the reds and the grays when the hunt club would be leaving from Harry’s farm. This usually happened twice during hunt season, mid-September to mid-March. The foxes could decide whether to give the hounds a run for their money or to snooze inside.
“I was wondering if you’d heard any reports of rabies among the foxes?”
The vixen shook her head. “No. Oh, Lord, I hope another epidemic isn’t sweeping over us. It’s been a good time. No mange or rabies.” She cast a fearful eye at her children.
“If you haven’t heard of anything, then we’re all right. Now, you’re eating the kibble Harry puts out from time to time?”
Harry, as a dutiful hunt-club member, once a month put out kibble with wormer dripped over it. This knocked the parasite load right out of the foxes. She also would trap the cubs just before the fall and take them to Dr. Shulman for their first rabies shot. Getting the booster into them three years later was a lot harder.
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