Moon Dance (20 page)

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did.

twelve

T
he sun had not quite risen the next morning when Georgia was awakened by the muffled sound of leaves rustling somewhere beneath her window. She crept from her bed and stealthily pulled the curtain aside to take a look. There, there in the shadows near the garden, something lurked. Was it crouched near the gate, perhaps trying to undo the string she had tied there?

She tiptoed back into the bedroom, where she quietly lifted the telephone and dialed the number— which she now knew by heart—for the police department.

"This is Georgia Enright at the old Evans farm. The person who's been vandalizing the gardens out here is back, he's out there now and I would like someone to come out and arrest him." She whispered into the phone, as if the intruder could hear her from her room on the second floor.

Assured that someone would be right there, Georgia threw off her nightgown and jumped into her
jeans and a sweatshirt, and tied on her old sneakers. She wanted to be there to confront him, whoever he was, and give him a piece of her mind. As the lights from the patrol car eased slowly up the drive, she ran down the steps and unlocked the front door.

"He's right out back," she told the young police officer as he pulled over onto the grassy spot near th
e house. "Inside the fence…
"

"You stay here, Miss, in case he's armed," the officer told her protectively.

"Okay." She nodded vigorousl
y, following him to the corn
er of the house, where she could
watch. She wanted to see the p
erpetrator apprehended. And once he was in custody, Georgia would have a few choice words for her midnight vandal.

"Come out with your hands up," the officer announc
ed from the corn
er of the house.

There was no response from the garden.

"I know you're in there. Just walk on out through the gate with your hands over your head," the officer called.

There was a faint, indistinguishable noise from the other side of the fence. The officer crept forward to investigate, his gun drawn and his eyes keenly focused on the garden gate.

"Oh, for crying out loud," the officer exclaimed.

"What is it?" Georgia whispered loudly, venturing a brave step from the safety of the shadow of the house.

"I think you should come take a look."

Georgia joined the policeman at the fence.

"There's your intrud
er." He pointed into the far corn
er, where a small figure crouched.

The figure was grunting.

"What is it?" She peered more closely over the fence, just as the dark figure sprang forward.

"That's a pig. A Vietnamese potbellied pig."

"A pig?" She frowned and looked down at the animal that was vainly attempting to poke its too-wide snout through the narrow space between the fence posts.

"We see them abandoned from time to time," the officer explained as he leaned over to scratch the area between the pig's eyes. "They used to be real popular as pets about ten years ago. People get tired of 'em,
though, just like they sometim
es get tired of a dog or a cat, and they turn them loose to fend for themselves."

He continued to scratch the pig's head. The pig closed its eyes and drifted off to heaven.

"It looks tame," Georgia observed.

"Oh, yes. This breed of pig used to be so popular, they used to call 'em Yuppie puppies. They used to sell for big money. A thousand dollars and up, some of them. Lots of big celebrities had 'em. I saw a picture one time of Julia Roberts walking a pig just like that one. Had it on a leash."

Georgia knelt down near the fence to get a better look. The pig stood up as if looking her over at the same time. It was small and black, swaybacked, so that its stomach was near to the ground. It poked its wide, dark nose through the wooden slats and grunted softly.

"I guess if it's been abandoned, it's been coming to the garden to look for food."

"That would explain why the plants were up
rooted." The officer knelt down next to Georgia. "I guess you're hungry, aren't you, Spam?"

Georgia laughed at the name. The pig grunted with slightly more vigor.

"Well, I'll take it to the SPCA over in Salisbury." He stood up. "If they're still taking these pigs."

"What will happen to it?" Georgia reached tentative fingers through the fence to touch the snout. The pig's skin was cold and tough, and it nuzzled its face against her hand.

"Well, they'll try to find a home for it. There are some rescue organizations that take in abandoned potbellied pigs, though I've heard that lately, they're turning away more animals than they can take, leaving the local SPCAs to
…
dispose of them however they can."

"Oh, poor Spam," Georgia whispered, and as if to plead its case, the pig made an effort to climb up the side of the fence, causing Georgia to laugh. "Oh, I don't think you're built for climbing. Your legs are far too short and far too much of your weight is too close to the ground."

She stood up and reached over to open the gate.

"Come on, Spam," she called, and the pig trotted out.

As if assessing its chances of survival, the pig looked over both the officer and Georgia, then rolled the dice and flung itself toward Georgia and nudged her knees.

"It likes me!" Georgia exclaimed.

"They say they're real social animals. Lots of folks even had them as house pets."

"You're kidding?" Georgia laughed. "I can't imagine keeping a pig in my house."
She scratched the sides of the pig's head, and the pig appeared to swoon. "How long do you think the S
PCA will keep it before they…
do whatever it is they'll do?"

"A few days, if that. I don't think there's much call for these critters anymore."

"That's so sad, to just turn an animal out like that."

"Especially when most of them this young are probably the product of several generations of domestic breeding. They don't have the survival skills of the wild pigs." He leaned over and, with his flashlight, illumined the pig's left flank, where deep scars gave evidence of some sort of attack. "Looks like something's had at it."

"What do you suppose did that?" Georgia leaned forward to investigate, and the pig lowered itself to the ground and rolled over like a dog wanting its tummy rubbed.

"Dog, maybe. May be a few wild ones out in the woods, there
." He pointed out beyond the barn
, then stood up. "Come on, Spam, it's time to go. I'll just get some rope out of the car, and we'll be on our way."

The pig rolled close to Georgia's feet, and she leaned forward to scratch its stomach. The pig turned its head toward her and grunted contentedly.

"You're pretty cute," Georgia told it, "for a pig."

"It is, isn't it, in its own peculiar way," the officer chuckled as he came back with the rope. "Let's try this around the neck, like a leash."

The pig rolled over onto its back and pulled itself up from the ground, clearly aware that something
was about to happen. As the rope was tied about its neck, it began to squeal faintly, as if appealing for mercy.

"What if I kept it here for a few days?" Georgia heard herself ask. "Maybe it wasn't abandoned. Maybe it's lost. Maybe its owner is looking for it."

"Not likely." The officer shook his head.

"Well, how 'bout if I were to put up a few signs, like at Tanner's?"

"That might work. If it's a lost pig
, and if it's from around O'Hearn
, the owner might see the sign. Sure. I don't see any harm in you keeping the pig. Just as long as you understand that it isn't likely that it's going to be claimed."

"That would be okay. He can stay in the ba
rn
." Georgia slipped the rope from around the pig's head, and the pig nudged at the calf of her right leg.

"Actually, I think it's a 'she
',
" the officer said.

"Oh. Well, then, she can stay in the ba
rn
till her owner shows up."

"If her owner shows up."

Georgia bent down and petted the top of the pig's head.

"I think I'll get her some breakfast. What do you suppose I should feed her?" Georgia looked up. "You don't suppose they make pig chow, do you?"

The officer nodded. "Well, they make every other kind of chow. I'd try Tanner's—they sell all kinds of livestock supplies. If we're done here, I'll go on back and write up my report. I'm sure Chief Monroe will be happy to find out that we collared your intruder."

Georgia laughed and called her thanks as the officer climbed back into the patrol car.

"Well, then, Spam
…
I think we'll keep that name, it's kind of cute." Georgia stood, hands on her hips, talking to the pig. "I think I'm going to go in and get my breakfast. You can wa
it over here in the garden…
come on."

She walked to the fence and opened the gate, the pig trotting along behind her as if it knew it had just gotten a reprieve, and was determined to follow orders.

"I'll be back out in a while and I'll bring you something. Don't know what, but I'll find something for you."

The pig replied with a grunt as a laughing Georgia turned back toward the house.

Later, after she'd filled an old pan with water and taken it out to the
garden, she told her new compan
ion, "I'm going to run into Tanner's now, and see what kind of food they have for pigs. In the meantime, you can munch on these carrots—look, I even saved you the tops—and you can stay here in the garden till I get back. Feel free to root around all you want, because there's nothing left here that you haven't already eaten. And be a good little piggy while I'm gone."

It amused her, she realized, to have taken in the little pig. Zoey and Ben had pups—adorable golden retrievers named Diva and Dozer (short for Bulldozer), and the Devlin home had a cat. Delia had a big old cat named Grade, a ba
rn
full of horses and ponies, and several dogs. Up until now, Georgia was the only member of the family who had no pet.

At least I'll have a little company when I'm outside,
she
thought as she strolled the rows of animal chows, finally locating what she needed. She found herself wishing she could have called Matt to ask him about what to feed Spam and if there was any special care one needed to give a potbellied pig. Surely he'd know. She dismissed the thought as quickly as Matt had dismissed her the week before, bolting and running from the kitchen as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough. She'd been bothered for days by the look in his eyes as he had backed away from her, as if she were tainted.

I guess as far as he's concerned, I am,
she sighed absently as she approached the cashier.
I'm an Enright.

She had several bags of pig chow loaded into the back of the Jeep along with two large-sized dog bowls—one for food, one for water. On her way out the door, she pinned the index card with the
FOUND:
V
IETNAMESE POTBELL
I
ED PIG
notice to the bulletin board inside the front door. If in fact Spam was lost, surely her owners would want to know where she was and how to find her.

"Well, let's see what you think of this," Georgia told Spam as she poured the packaged pig chow into the just-purchased bowl and set it on the ground.

Spam approached it, sniffed it, then attacked her meal with gusto.

"Spammy, you eat like—well, frankly—like a pig. When you're done, we'
ll take a stroll over to the barn
and see if we can find some accommodations that suit you."

It was obvious that Spam did not like the ba
rn
. She peered curiously into the empty stalls, then bolted for
the door and raced back to the house. When a laughing Georgia cau
ght up to the pig, it was loung
ing near the porch steps.

"Sorry, but no," Georgia said aloud. "There will be no pigs living in my house."

Spam sighed and plunked her head down onto the ground.

"Well, maybe you could sleep on the back porch there. At least it's enclosed and you'd be safe from things that might think you look like a pork chop."

Georgia opened the screened door at the top of the steps and went inside the porch, which was enclosed by windows on
three sides. It might work…

The phone was ringing in the kitchen, and she answered it on the sixth ring.

"I was just about to hang up,
cara."

"Lee! I was thinking about you just yesterday! I miss you!" Georgia cried.

"And being psychic, I knew that. And I miss you too, Georgey. Now, tell me, how's farm life?"

"Oh, I love it! Pumpkin Hill is wonderful. I wish you could see it, Lee. I know you'd love it too."