Meggie shouted, “Mr. Cork, I’ll give you three strips of bacon if you beat out old Lummley!”
Old Lummley was a champion. He knew his business, and needed only to see his mistress, Mrs. Foe, standing at the finish line, her arms crossed over her mighty bosom whistling the same tune over and over, to ran straight and fast. He’d gotten a touch of arthritis over the last year and the experts predicted it would soon slow him down.
Four-year-old Rory Sherbrooke loved Cleopatra, although she twitched her tail and ran away from him whenever he was close enough to try to grab her. Rory waved frantically as he sat atop his father’s shoulders, yelled until his father believed he would surely go deaf.
Meggie patted Rory’s leg, then saw Mr. Cork suddenly pull away from Cleopatra, who’d just landed short on one of her leaps. There was a moan and a cheer from the crowd who lined the racetrack.
Cheering intensified. Five cats remained, running as hard as they could, all in splendid shape, all wanting to win. Four of them were grouped together—Cleopatra, Blinker II, Old Lummley, and Mr. Cork. They were moving fast, faster still. Candace, just behind them, her head down, was looking neither right nor left, just running hard out to catch the pack.
Suddenly, from the back came Tiny Tom, leaping over racers in front of him. His leap was a bit like Cleopatra’s but with an added corkscrew flair just before he landed. The crowd held its breath as the small cat leapt over Horace, barely skimming the proud flag flying off that fat tail. Then, in the next moment, Tiny Tom landed, by awful accident, on Blinker II’s back, causing the racer to twist about, bite Tiny Tom’s ear, sending them both howling and spitting off the track and into Mrs. Blanchard, eighty years old and deaf, and tangle in her long skirts as she hit at them with her parasol.
Pandemonium broke out when Mr. Cork, in a final surge of power, flew over the finish line, beating Cleopatra by three whiskers. Old Lummley and Candace tumbled over each other vying for third place. Blinker II trotted back to the track, realized he’d lost and walked over the finish line, tail stiff, nose in the air. Horace followed behind him, his tail flag dragging in the dirt. There would be no re-illuminating this day. As for Tiny Tom, he was exhausted. He lay on his side at the edge of the track, licking his paws.
When Lady Dauntry, in a voice that carried all the way to Eastbourne, announced that Mr. Cork had won, Max hefted him up and carried him, draped over his shoulder, in state, to the winner’s circle, Alec walking proudly beside him. Max was panting by the time he got there, as Mr. Cork wasn’t a lightweight. When Mr. Cork saw Meggie, he automatically opened his mouth and let out a mighty MEOW. She dutifully pulled a piece of bacon wrapped in a pristine napkin from her pocket and fed it to him, telling him he was a beautiful boy and a splendid racer.
Mr. Cork consumed his bacon, licked Meggie’s hand, and laid his head back on Max’s shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself.
Cleopatra knew she’d lost. She wasn’t happy about it. Unfortunately, good sportsmanship was something trainers couldn’t seem to teach the racers, and so when Leo carried her too close to Mr. Cork, she reached out a paw and swiped his head. He opened one eye, tossed one hiss her way, then fell back to sleep, undisturbed by her bad manners.
“Next time, Cleo,” Leo said, stroking his hand down her sleek back, “you’ll get the orange giant next time, you’ll see. You need some more takeoff training, more power in your hind legs, and Alec and I have come up with just the way to do it.”
Alec nuzzled her head even as his fingertips lightly touched her ears. Then he whispered something in her small ear, and everyone would swear that she was listening to him. He kissed the top of her head. She forgot her snit and purred madly.
Mr. Grimsby saw this, and nodded wisely. “A cat whisperer,” he said to his wife, who looked profoundly awed. “Yes, Alec is a budding cat whisperer.”