Swine Not? (9 page)
No Whining
RUMPY
B
ARLEY’S NOT
lying. This pig has never been an Oliver McBride fan. I always thought he spent more time promoting himself than taking care of his family. But when he walked me through the revolving door of Flutbein’s Hotel and back into the real world, I decided to cut him some slack — for now. I was a free pig, if only for a day. It didn’t even matter that the Butcher shared the revolving door with us, although I knew he would be asking Murray about the new dog in the hotel. Once inside the van, Barley unzipped my disguise and put me in the backseat so I could see out. Fall was in the air as we crossed the Tappan Zee and drove along the Hudson River toward the capital of New York State.
I had almost forgotten about Halloween, but it wasn’t my costume that reminded me of the upcoming holiday. It was all those bright-orange pumpkins for sale on the side of the road. Though we were in a hurry to get to the game, Barley got Oliver to stop at a roadside stand to buy me one. There is nothing that tastes as good as a freshly picked ten-pound pumpkin. I ate every shred of it, even the stem.
Barley, of course, had mastered the controls of the onboard GPS unit. We drove for a few more hours, and then Barley got us right to the stadium. He zipped me into my costume, and I shot like a rocket out of the van and onto the playing field. Barley strapped on my snout guard, and I fielded his shots for an hour before the team bus showed up. I overcame my disgust over the hot-dog smoke that filled the air from countless grills at tailgate parties in the parking lot. Nothing was going to spoil these precious moments with my boy.
Before we knew it, the game was on. Barley was amazing, leading his team down the field, shouting out directions, and always keeping the ball moving. He scored an incredible goal with a header to the corner of the net at the end of the first half, but I am sad to report that it was the only goal the Falcons could muster that day. They were outgunned by an extraordinary team from Binghamton.
Losing is not an easy thing in the human world of sports competition, but I was so proud of the way Barley handled it. He didn’t whine or make excuses. He just said the other team had more opportunities to win. During the drive home, he fell asleep on the backseat, and I stayed up front with Oliver, relaxing on top of my costume.
The darkness that accompanies the changing season seemed to come more quickly than usual that afternoon. I knew it was back to the fish tank and my four-star prison. I admit that during the Falcons game there were a few times when I had the urge to make a dash for the woods. But the thought quickly faded; I knew that running away was selfish and would never be the path to finding my brother. Instead, I turned my attention back to the game and snorted and twirled for my boy on the field. Whether I liked it or not, I knew for some strange reason that the path to Lukie began in the fish tank.
A few blocks from Flutbein’s, Oliver woke Barley up, and he zipped me back into my outfit. The lobby was empty, and we made it to the roof without running into the Butcher, or anyone else for that matter. Oliver tucked Barley in and got me out of my dog suit. I grabbed my Lukieball, followed him into the living room, and lay down next to him on the couch.
I think Oliver liked the idea that I chose to sleep next to him, and even though I was back in the confines of the fish tank, I was feeling better about life in general. That night I dreamed that Lukie and I were playing hide-and-seek in a large field of pumpkins. He was out there, and I was going to find him.
The Table Begins to Turn—What New Dog?
RUMPY
I
DON’T KNOW
how it is for humans, but in the animal kingdom, some things happen at the right time for the right reason. The tables began to turn with that trip to Albany, but it was the night after Maple and Ellie returned from Florida that my world changed dramatically.
Oliver delayed his departure back to Iceland for a day so he could see Maple, and we had a great dinner. Maple, Oliver, and Barley cooked for Ellie. They hadn’t grown up around a chef without taking a few notes. Oliver and Barley made the pasta, and Maple took care of the salad. Then came my treat. The girls had brought a big box of tropical fruit back from their trip, and Maple made me a fruit salad filled with mangoes, papayas, coconut, bananas, oranges, and grapefruit. Though she tried, we would not let Ellie in the kitchen. I took up my position as goalkeeper, and she finally gave up and sat with me on the couch. It was a delicious meal.
After dinner, Ellie went with Oliver to return his van, and then he would catch a cab to the airport. The kids walked with me on the outside roof for our usual clandestine stroll, and they set up the now-routine watch for Murray and the dreaded head chef. It was Maple’s night to join Syrup and stand lookout by the door. Barley and I made the big circle, as we had done a hundred times before, but for the first time in a while, I brought my Lukieball along.
I had been sheltering my most cherished possession and pampering it in its resting place as if it were a newborn, but after my trip to Albany, I had a revelation. It was not my real brother. Pure and simple, it was a football, and it was not made of pigskin. It was made of leather, and I needed to treat it more like a ball. It had nothing to do with finding my brother.
Barley tossed the football gently in my direction, and I reacted as any good goalie would. I whacked it back toward him with my snout at twice the speed.
Barley returned the kick, and I happily chased the ball and repeated the process. Soon we found ourselves locked in a pitch-and-toss routine worse than that of any Labrador retriever I’d seen in Central Park. We were just about to wrap up our game when Maple signaled that someone was coming up the stairs. I gave the Lukieball one last slap, and I knew when it left the end of my nose that it was too much.
The ball sailed toward the edge of the building, and Barley made a mighty leap — but over the side it went.
Before I knew it, I had pawed my way up on a heating unit and was suddenly perched on the ledge.
“Rumpy, don’t move!” Maple shouted out.
I wasn’t about to. Barley was at the ledge in seconds and slowly directed my hooves in reverse and lowered me off. I was too shaken to even look over the ledge, but Barley and Maple surveyed the park.
“I know it’s right past that park bench over there,” Barley said, “but it bounced into that hedge. I can’t see it.”
“You run to the park and find it. I’ll take care of Rumpy,” Maple ordered.
Barley made a dash for the door, and Maple and I headed to the bunker in the corner as Murray came up to check on the boiler. Fortunately he didn’t stay long, and when Barley returned ten minutes later, he had a somber look on his face. “I couldn’t find it,” he said, “and Mom would kill me if she knew I was in the park this late, especially alone.”
I got all worked up, snorting and running around in little circles. I trotted back and forth to the ledge.
“I know you can smell it, Rumpy, but how do we get you there?”
“Room service, anyone?” Maple asked with a sly smile.
“What are you talking about?” Barley said with that judgmental expression of his.
Maple just stroked the cat, which had assumed its usual position on her shoulders. “Follow me,” she said.
Well, Maple led us out of the fish tank, whispering that she had been hatching my escape plan ever since the exotic-pets rule was put into place. She had clearly scouted the old rickety fire escape that clung to the back of the hotel, and we descended behind her.
The fire escape was about as scary as my few minutes on the rooftop ledge, but with one kid in front of me and the other behind, I knew I was in safe hands. Where the fire escape ended, a doorway opened to a long, narrow hallway. That led into a deserted old banquet room, where dozens of tables and chairs were stacked to the ceiling.
“I had planned on making this a surprise some night when Mom had extra work, but I guess finding your pet football is important enough for us to try it out now.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew that little girl had not only seen my anguish but felt it from day one. Maple produced a small flashlight from the pocket of her jeans. “Wait here,” she said. She quietly followed the beam to the far corner of the room. A minute later, Maple rolled out a room-service table covered with a long, white oversize tablecloth, which hung down to the floor. “Your chariot, Mademoiselle,” she said with a thick French accent. “I have modified it a bit,” she added. Then she pulled back one side of the tablecloth to reveal a large metal door, which she opened.
Let’s just say that most pigs have an inherent dislike of ovens — as one might expect. Add that I had originally been brought up as a barnyard animal, and as a runt, I had been slept on, walked over, and pushed around most of my infant life. Under normal circumstances, my claustrophobia wouldn’t have allowed me to come close to entering the small door of the tin box sitting in a room-service table, but these were not ordinary times. I stepped cautiously to the door and snorted as Maple gently gave my hindquarters a nudge. She continued to shine the flashlight on the open door.
Honey, not only could this child sew but she was a car builder for confined pigs. What a contraption she had fabricated! I could see that she had cut four holes in the bottom of the box for my feet.
“Okay, let’s try it,” Maple said. She closed the door and lowered the tablecloth. My legs fit perfectly through the holes, and a tiny window on the back side of the box gave me a view directly ahead. I felt like one of those astronauts you see on TV, climbing into a space capsule.
I looked out the little window, and Maple and Barley’s heads popped into view a few feet in front of me. “Bridge to engine room,” Barley said with a giggle, “engines ahead one-third.”
Well, my rocket ship had no wings or boosters strapped to it, but it was my ticket out of the hotel. I walked forward, and the table above me moved, too. “Amazing,” I heard the usually reserved Barley utter. “You can’t see a thing. It looks just like a table.”
It took us only a few more minutes to work up the routine that would get me out of the hotel and back into the park. Maple arranged the tablecloth so it didn’t block my viewing window. “I’ve got an idea,” I heard Barley say, and I saw him disappear through the door at the entrance to the banquet room. As Maple oiled the wheels with a spray can of WD-40, Barley returned, balancing a small pile of dinner dishes in his arms. He dropped them on the table with a clunk. I smelled food instantly, a leftover salad — there were definitely carrots in it and maybe some raisins and goat cheese — but as my stomach growled, my brain took over. This was not the time to be thinking about eating.
“Now it really looks like a room-service table,” Barley said.
“Try it again, Rumpy,” Maple said.
I moved forward, and the dishes rattled above my head.
“Perfect,” she added. Maple then gave Barley the plan. She had worked out the escape route and had gone over it many times. She would lead the way, and Barley would cover the rear. If the hallway was empty, I was to just waddle along. If someone came down the hall, Maple would whistle once, and I would pull over next to the wall and stop. Room-service trays with dirty dishes piled high were a common sight in any hotel.
Our route would take us down the hall to the elevator, which we would ride to the basement. Then we would go through the door that led to the alley behind the hotel.
The pig table worked like a charm. We made the hallway without seeing a soul, and I rolled onto the service elevator with my heart pounding. Two floors down, the elevator door opened, and three maids got on. They were busy chattering away in Chinese and didn’t even notice the table in the corner. I watched the elevator button light up as the floors flew by. The maids got off at four, and nobody got on.
Then, as the number-three button lit up, I smelled cigarette smoke. When the door opened, I thought I was going to have a heart attack right there in that little box. The Butcher stepped on the elevator. But it got worse. Ellie was right behind him.
I was starting to feel like a baked ham.
“Well, hello,” she said with a surprised look.
Boucher was his usual dismissive self.
“Monsieur Boucher, I would like you to meet my children. This is Barley, and that is Maple.”
The kids were silent. When I had watched him in the shadows of the roof and had passed him in the revolving door, I had felt his cold heart more than I had really seen him. Now, close up, he was more menacing than ever. His face was covered with acne scars, and his jawbone jutted out like a barracuda’s. His long black coat was drenched with the smell of garlic and tobacco, and he was smoking on the elevator.
“Say hello, children,” Ellie urged.
The kids said hello politely to Boucher the way twins do — at the same time.
“Barley and Maple? What kind of freakish names are those? And what are you grommets doing down here, anyway?”
Ellie looked shocked at Boucher’s sharp words, and I guess I expected the kids to share the same panic I was feeling — but boy, was I wrong. Maple answered calmly, “Our cat got out, and one of the housekeepers told us she saw her in the laundry room.”
“Maybe she fell into a stew pot or was chased by that new dog of yours,” Boucher snapped, and then laughed at his own sick joke. “What idiot left this table in the elevator?”
I could see his beady eyes looking my way, and I prayed to the pig gods that he didn’t see a pair of eyes looking back at him.
“I don’t believe you are supposed to be smoking in an elevator,” I heard Barley say from behind the table.
Boucher immediately took his eyes off the table and shot a menacing glance back at Barley. Ellie’s mouth was still open, but the distraction worked. Boucher smashed the butt of his cigarette into the salad above my head. The door opened, and the bell rang.
Boucher slid off the elevator quickly. Ellie stood in the doorway for a moment and then looked back at the twins. In a loud whisper she said, “Find that cat, and get your homework done.” Then she added, “What new dog?”
Ellie rushed to catch up with the Butcher, and the elevator door closed behind them. We were in the clear.
The rest of the plan worked like a charm. At the street entrance, Maple took her backpack off. Syrup climbed out of the bag, and then Maple reached in and pulled out two sweatshirts. “I had these made at the photocopy place,” Maple told Barley. Stenciled on the front of the shirts were the words
ASPCA RECOVERY TEAM
.
Maple brought out my sheepdog suit, and they helped me into it. The twins slipped on the sweatshirts, and then they attached me to a leash. Off we went. We all looked very official, although several passing dogs gave us very strange looks.
I don’t think I would have won Best in Show at the Madison Square Garden dog show, but it did get me across Fifth Avenue and into the park. I picked up the scent of my Lukieball instantly. Barley followed my lead and found it sitting against a chestnut tree.
If I could find my Lukieball, my chances of finding the real Lukie were beginning to look up.
