Meggie hated to admit it, but this was a new training technique to be carefully considered. A dog chasing a cat. It did add motivation. In this case Miss Crittenden had never run so fast in her life.
Brutus was panting, his tongue lolling, hurtling down the track after her, shaking his head now, doubtless to clear it from the smack he’d gotten from Liam’s mother, Thomas right behind him.
Miss Crittenden leapt the last four feet, sailed high in the air, and landed right into Meggie’s arms, nearly knocking her backward. Brutus barked loudly, and before Thomas could stop him, leapt at Meggie.
Everyone went down in a welter of arms and legs, flying fur and yowls.
Brutus was licking Meggie’s face, then barking, then licking some more, then eyeing Miss Crittenden and barking even more loudly, as he tried to get to her.
Madeleine shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth to be heard, “Miss Crittenden is the winner!”
Thomas managed to pull a very excited Brutus off Meggie, peel Miss Crittenden from beneath Meggie’s arm, and helped his laughing wife up, whose face was shiny from Brutus’s licking.
Meggie looked around at all the loudly cheering crowd of neighbors and villagers. There were yells and shouts; some people were laughing so hard they were holding their sides.
She hugged Thomas to her. She was grinning so wildly her face threatened to split. “Our first cat race. And there was an actual winner. Isn’t this splendid, Thomas? Our Miss Crittenden won, she really won. She beat Jubilee, and let me tell you, I was worried about that cat.”
He couldn’t help himself. He lifted his wife and whirled her around him. Meggie suddenly yowled as loud as any racing cat. Miss Crittenden was climbing her skirt, fast.
“No obstacle is too great,” Thomas said as he eased both his wife and Miss Crittenden down, “for a true racing cat to surmount.”
Madeleine yelled out, “The soon-to-be legendary prize for the winner of the quarter-of-a-mile race, is a magnificent set of collars, handmade by none other than the other dowager countess of Lancaster.”
More cheering.
Libby bowed and walked sedately to where Meggie had finally gotten herself together and was holding a more composed Miss Crittenden in her arms.
Jenny was standing beside her, holding Jubilee, who looked disgruntled, occasionally spitting toward Miss Crittenden, a very natural thing, Meggie assured her even as she was grinning like a fool. William was patting Jenny’s head in commiseration, in much the same way as he patted his new wife’s growing belly in pleasure.
“Very easy for you to say since you’re the winner,” Jenny said. “That damned dog just about scared Jubilee out of her fur.”
Brutus sat on his haunches, his tail a steady metronome, fluffing up dirt, Thomas holding him firmly. He was eyeing the cat collar as Meggie fastened it around Miss Crittenden’s neck. There were small emeralds sewn into the collar, as green as Ireland’s hills after a summer rain.
It was a beautiful day on the coast of southwestern Ireland, the first day a cat race had ever been run there. It wouldn’t be the last.
And luckily, there had actually been a winner.