Friendly Foal (8 page)

7. Berlin

8. Athens

9. Antwerp

10. Belfast

11. El Dorado

12. London

13. Dresden

14. Moscow

15. Utopia”

“I-I can't believe you get to go to all those cities!” I didn't know where Utopia was, but I recognized most of the others. “Are they all safe?” I'd heard about fighting in Belfast. And Moscow had always sounded kind of scary to me.

“Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Coolidge assured me. “I plan to visit beauty shops in every city too. As we all know, there is no safer place on earth than a beauty salon.”

I, for one, hadn't known that. But Mrs. Coolidge runs a hair salon, so she ought to know.

“Hard job narrowing down possible cities,” said Mr. Coolidge, licking an envelope. “I really wanted to see Lebanon, Vera Cruz, Sodom, and Poznan. But I gave in gladly to the lovely Mrs. Coolidge.”

“That's not exactly how I remember it, Mr. Coolidge,” his wife countered. “As I recall,
I
really wanted to visit Palermo, Jerusalem, Amsterdam, Congo, Canaan, and Cuba. And
I
was the one who gave in to the charming
Mr.
Coolidge.”

Mr. Coolidge got up from his chair so fast that it tipped over. He ran to his wife and threw his arms around her. “My darling!” He swung her to the side, like ballroom dancers dipping, and kissed her. “Let's never fight again.”

“No, never!” she answered.

That was a fight?

Note to self: Get Dad and Madeline in the same room as Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge, then bring up the golf buddy.

This
was definitely not a fight.

“So how long will you be gone?” I asked when they were both upright again.

“Four days,” Mrs. Coolidge said.

“Four days? You mean four
weeks?”
I couldn't see how they'd squeeze all those cities into four weeks. But I didn't think they'd leave Catman for four
months
.

“Four days,” Mr. Coolidge said, picking up his toppled chair. “We don't stay in all the cities. Some we dine in. Others we drive through.”

“And only check out their beauty salons,” Mrs. Coolidge added.

“And their used-car lots,” Mr. Coolidge continued.

I wasn't getting this at all. “But how can you? Four
days?
You'll barely get to the first city and have to fly to another, then another. . . .”

Mr. Coolidge frowned at me as if I'd said a dirty word.
“Fly?
Our stops aren't that far apart, Winnie.”

I'd heard people say Americans
think
European countries are all bunched together like the state of Iowa, but we're wrong. They
are
far apart once you try to travel from one to the other.

“Besides,” bellowed Mr. Coolidge, “would Smart Bart be seen in an airplane?” The way he pronounced it, it sounded like
arrowplane
.

Now I really wasn't getting it. They
had
to fly to Europe. I looked to Catman for help.

Even though his mouth was a straight line, his blue eyes were laughing at me. “European cities . . . in Ohio.”

“Your parents won a trip to Ohio? Their own state?”

“We've agreed to only speak the appropriate language in each bed-and-breakfast,” Mrs. Coolidge went on. “We won't be talking much through Moscow and Warsaw.”

“Who needs words, my little Cadillac?” Mr. Coolidge cooed.

When the grandfather clock struck nine, I started worrying about the help line and getting done in time to get back for Sal and Amigo.

Catman must have read my mind. “Gotta split.”

His parents thanked us for helping. I told them to have a great vacation, but I already knew they would.

The light was on and the dogs were up and barking when we walked into Pat's Pets.

Pat Haven, the owner, is kind of a permanent sub for my seventh-grade life science class. She's a good teacher and a great friend.

“Hey, Winnie. Catman,” Pat said, coming over to us. “How's that filly doing?”

“She's okay. Doesn't like me much, though. I'm trying to imprint her, but it's tough.”

Pat shook her head like this was terrible news. Usually she's one of the bounciest people I know. But today even her brown curls weren't springy. Dressed in a yoked shirt and blue jeans, she looked like a cowgirl who'd just lost the rodeo.

“You okay, Pat?” I asked.

“That twit's got me wound tighter than a rattlesnake. No offense.” Pat always apologizes to the animals she uses in her expressions. This apology was aimed in the general direction of the boa constrictor. “Don't know what I'm supposed to do with that little twit.”

I couldn't believe it. Pat Haven had just called someone a
twit
. Twice! It wasn't like her. Even at middle school, which is populated by a high percentage of twits, I've never heard her say anything bad about anybody.

“Who, Pat?” I asked.

“Dollface,” she answered.

I should have known. “You mean that big goldfish?”

Pat nodded.

“Why is she a twit?” I asked, wondering how much trouble a goldfish could be.

“She's pregnant!” Pat laughed. “That's what a
twit
is—a pregnant goldfish.” She stopped laughing as suddenly as if somebody had shut her off. “She's not looking so good, if you ask me.”

“I don't know much about fish, Pat,” I confessed.

“Cats eat them,” Catman said, shrugging.

“Hey, guys! Almost done!” Barker shouted from the other side of the store, where Pat has a computer just for the Pet Help Line.

Catman and I made our way past the iguana cage over to Barker. Zorro was sitting on Barker's lap, not even trying to scramble off. His imprinting must have been going a whole lot better than Friendly's.

“I only had one message today,” Barker said, tucking Zorro like a football under one arm before he got up. Barker motioned for one of us to take the computer. “Three e-mails for you, Catman. Winnie, you've got a dozen.”

I let Catman go first so he could get home before his parents left on their tour. And, anyway, I love seeing what Catman writes.

Before he checked his own e-mail, Catman hit keys so fast I couldn't tell what he'd done. But there was Barker's question-and-answer on the screen. I guess Catman liked reading Barker's e-mails as much as I enjoyed Catman's. I wondered if anybody enjoyed mine.

I moved around so I could read too:

Dear Barker,

Help! I'm worried about Albert, my dog. He's only 9 months old, and I think he's got leprosy! Small black spots popped out on his lower lips and face. And his chin has crusty, yucky spots. What should I do?

—Albert the First

Dear Albert,

Don't worry. Those black spots . . . they're zits! You heard me. Dog pimples. Lots of puppies get them. Dogs too.

Wash Albert's face twice a day. Keep his food dish clean. Stay away from plastic bowls because they hold the oil and get it on your puppy's chin. Stick with aluminum or glass or pottery or even china.

—Barker

Catman switched to his e-mails and got right to it, typing at Quarter Horse speed, using only his thumbs and pinkies.

Dear Catman,

I think our family cat hates me. The minute I get close to her, she rolls on her back and sticks her claws up in the air. It's probably my fault. When I was a little kid, I was scared of cats. I'm not now, but maybe our cat remembers and won't give me another chance.

—Catman Wanna-be

Hey, Cat!

Never fear! That ol' cat digs you, man! Cats don't roll over for any ol' jive turkey! Belly up means, “I trust you totally, Daddy-O!” And don't sweat the past cat fear. That little fighting dude named Napoleon had a bad case of ailurophobia (fear of cats) too. Only he never got rid of it.

Be cool, Cat!

—The Catman

Dear Catman,

I am an old man who loves his cats. All three of my cats have been getting sick off and on all winter. The vet says they're fine. But whenever the cats go outside, they come back in and groan with stomachaches an hour later. Then they're fine again. I keep my walks shoveled and salted just so the cats won't have to walk in the cold snow. Any ideas for me?

—Old-Timer

Dear Old-Timer,

Might be the salt on your walks, man! That stuff gets soaked in through cats' paws. Plus cats lick it off their little doggies (paws). Lose the salt. Sounds like you four cats are a groovy foursome!

—The Catman

When it was my turn, I scrolled through e-mails and pulled out the easy ones. Seven of the questions had to do with problem horses who had been cooped up in stalls all winter. They cribbed or chewed on their stalls. They pawed and spooked at everything.

The horses needed to get outside more. Anybody would go crazy from boredom just standing in a box stall night and day. I told them to turn out their horses as often as they could. And I suggested ways they could make the stall more fun with hay nets and toys.

It was the first time I'd ever cut and pasted answers on the help line, copying the same answer for all seven e-mails. I felt bad and promised myself I'd never do it again. But I only had an hour, so I had to.

I worked my way through the rest of the e-mails. One horse resented the new horse in the barn. One owner needed advice on cleaning out the frog, the V-shaped underneath part of the hoof. One girl needed me to tell her that her horse's natural winter coat would have been a better protector than the stall blanket she'd left on all winter.

The longest answer went to Confused in Colorado:

Dear Winnie the Horse Gentler,

Molly is the best Morgan in the whole world. Every day for the four months I've owned her, I brushed her from head to hoof. I thought she loved it. But a week ago she started acting weird. Whenever I'd get to her hindquarters, she'd lift her back leg, like she was going to kick me! It's SO not like her! But now she does it every time I get near her rump or try to walk around her. Help!