She was out on her old 1958 tractor, bushogging the sides of her long driveway. Once Harry fired up her tractor it was hard to get her to step down. The pop-pop-pop of the upright exhaust pipe thrilled her as much as a Brandenburg Concerto thrilled a music aficionado. Which was not to say that Harry didn’t like Bach. She did. She just liked her tractor’s pops and rumbles better.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter hated the dust this chore stirred up. Furthermore, they’d worked diligently in the post office that day and felt they were entitled to a snooze amidst the lilies that Harry had planted in front of the low boxwoods by the barn. She was going all out on her beautification program since BoomBoom Craycroft—a former adversary turned, if not friend, then warm acquaintance—had gotten a whopping good price on all the stock of a nursery going out of business. The nursery had specialized in only trees and shrubs, no flowers. BoomBoom, Susan Tucker, Miranda Hogendobber, and Harry bought up maples, hickories, crepe myrtles, Italian lilacs, redbuds, dogwoods, a new disease-resistant chestnut, and even some red oaks. The four women divided up the trees and shrubs between them. Harry had lined her drive and farm roads with her bounty. Of course, the girls, as they called themselves, nearly broke their backs putting in all this plant material, but Harry had a drill on the back of her old tractor so she could dig the holes. Then BoomBoom, operating her new tractor, scooped up the trees, and the huge root bundles in a ball of dirt were perched on the front-end loader of her tractor. And throughout March and April, when weather permitted, they got the trees and shrubs in the ground at each of their houses.
As Harry bounced around on the tractor seat covered with remnants of a sheepskin, she thought about how much she loved working outdoors. Even those raw days when the drizzle ran down the back of her neck and the temperature chilled at thirty-six degrees, she loved it.
When she wasn’t puzzling over Barry, her mind returned to her present job—postmistress. Everybody trooped through the post office. She adored seeing everyone she knew, as well as the occasional stranger. But the threat of a new building, more employees, and more rules nagged at her. She and Miranda did as they pleased, and as long as they met the dispatcher in the morning and in the late afternoon, they were just fine. The building was as neat as a pin, the mail sorted and in the boxes by nine most days. And since they knew everyone, they knew who drove by on their way in to work in Charlottesville in the morning. Those people could always expect a wave, a smile. Best of all, Harry’s three four-footed friends worked with her. What if a new post office and new people changed that? She would never work without her animals. It was unnatural. It would make her sick to just hang around with humans all the time.
A large rock outcropping near the drive necessitated a swerve. A groundhog nibbled grass to the side of the outcropping.
As she neared the dirt state road, she pulled over again, because Susan Tucker turned onto the gray stones, number five from the quarry in Staunton. Harry put a load down in April and complained for a month about the expense.
Stopping, Susan rolled down her window. “Looks good. Why don’t you come up the other side—I know you hate to leave a job in the middle of it—and I’ll make supper.”
“You will?”
“I will. Brooks and her dad drove down to Sweet Briar this afternoon.” She pointed to a bag of groceries on the passenger seat of her Audi station wagon. “Voilà.”
“Susan, you are the best!” Harry, who rarely cooked, beamed.
“In fact, give yourself forty-five minutes. You ought to knock a mess of bushogging out by then.”
“Roger.” Harry touched the brim of her straw cowboy hat.
Each year she bought a new Shady Brady and wore it hard. By the end of the year that hat was tired, plus she’d invariably forget to bring it in the house and would leave it in the tack room, where the mice would chew on it.
Tucker, snoring next to the tack trunk in the barn, lifted her head when she heard Susan come down the drive. She roused herself, hoping that Susan had brought along Owen, her corgi brother.
As the two dogs played tag, the bemused cats watched.
“What’s funny about those two is they have no idea they’re shrimps.” Pewter rested her head on her outstretched paw.
“Dwarfs.” Mrs. Murphy accurately described the two corgis, large animals bred down to shortened legs but with the torso and head of larger dogs.
As corgis go, Tucker and Owen were on the large size of the breed. Tee Tucker weighed forty pounds and her brother weighed about forty-six, but he carried a little potbelly. Neither dog was terribly overweight, and both could turn on a dime and give you a nickel’s change. Given that their function was herding cattle, their size and demeanor were perfect for the task. A small dog like a miniature pinscher might not get the respect of the cattle, but a corgi with a stout bark and strong jaws could nip heels, duck or leap sideways, and drive those cattle down the road.
“Murphy, I’ve been thinking about Barry. No, we couldn’t smell another animal, but he had the stench of fear on him. We didn’t talk about that,” Pewter said.
“Hmm.” Mrs. Murphy sat up. “I attributed that to nature. He was afraid of what killed him.”
“Me, too,” Pewter replied.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, let’s say a bear grabs him or even takes a swipe so only his throat is touched.”
“Yeah . . .” The tiger nodded, waiting.
“Wouldn’t Barry have thrown his right arm up to protect his throat? That’s the natural human reaction. They have no other defense in that situation and, God knows, the poor things can’t outrun a rabbit.”
“Pewter, you’re right. And there wasn’t a mark on him, at least not that we could see. No dirt on his right arm or bruises or blood. It’s—”
“Unnatural.” Pewter finished her thought for her.
“Even if a huge raptor swooped down on him, he’d still throw his arm up.” Mrs. Murphy considered other possibilities.
“Okay, suppose the bird hit him from behind with his talons balled up. Barry stumbled and somehow fell faceup. Well, he’d have a big knot on the back of his head.”
“Thought you didn’t care much about humans except for Harry and a few of her friends.” Mrs. Murphy taunted Pewter just a bit.
Pewter drawled, “I don’t. But I was thinking about what kind of animal would kill Barry without him having any time to defend himself at all.”
“You’re it!” Tucker roared by, too close for comfort, as she chased her brother.
“Watch it!” Mrs. Murphy swiped at the white rear end.
The possum, Simon, awakened for a night’s foraging, peered out of the hayloft door, open to let the breezes through the hay. “Pipe down.”
The cats looked up at Simon, whom they liked well enough. “Good luck. Tucker’s about to go into her frenzy. Give her another minute and she’ll chase the tail that isn’t there.”
Simon, half-domesticated, had endured every shot and test for EPM, a degenerative, complicated disease that would be passed to the horses, and emerged a remarkably healthy possum, if a disgruntled one.
“I’m not coming down until those two are in the house. They’ll chase me. Tucker forgets her manners when Owen’s around,” Simon grumbled.
As Susan stepped out back to ring the large bell hanging by the screen door, the dogs decided that the prospect of food was more alluring than chasing each other to exhaustion.