Swine Not? (5 page)
Family Week
BARLEY
W
HEN THE
Winnebago pulled into our driveway, my first horrified thought was that Coach Boykin was back and ready to take Mom to a tailgate party. I was even more stunned when Dad popped out of the driver’s seat and said, “Anybody need a lift to New York City?” I didn’t even know he could drive.
I have a feeling that Mom called him and told him our move to New York might be a good opportunity for him to spend time with Maple and me and help with the trip. To his credit, Dad jumped right in.
As we loaded the mobile home, I filled him in on my soccer stories, past and present. He, of course, told me he had a big deal almost sold to the Fox Network. This was going to be his big break. At the end of our trip, he was heading back to Iceland to do research. Believe me, I had heard that one before. When Dad was in the chips, everybody took the ride, but when he was down on his luck, we didn’t hear from him for months. I was glad our move and his good luck had coincided.
So, on a sunny morning in late August, McBride family history was made when the pastry chef, the commercial writer / TV producer, the future Red Bull star striker, the budding fashion diva, and their lazy cat and multitalented pig set off for the big city. Boy, did we smack of the Beverly Hillbillies going north.
We did a lot of singing as we crossed the Appalachian Mountains, and when we pulled into campgrounds and set up for soccer practice, people really stared. Dad attempted to play against Rumpy and me. It was immediately apparent that I did not get my athletic abilities from my father. This was pointed out repeatedly by Mom and Maple, who laughed and shouted taunts. However, we were all very impressed when Dad actually changed a tire on the Beltway outside Washington, D.C.
Then, in the early morning, just south of Philadelphia, the whole thing began to sink in. Dad was driving, and I had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, but a loud air horn on an 18-wheeler woke me up. When I opened my eyes, a road sign read: new york — 94 miles. I couldn’t go back to sleep. It was nearly dawn, and my heart was racing. This was no dream. We were actually moving to New York.
O
UR ARRIVAL
in the Big Apple was delayed slightly because we had to drop off both Dad and the Winnebago in New Jersey, near Newark Airport. He had gotten us a different ride to town at the TV production company’s expense.
The stretch limo waiting for us at the curb seemed as long as the soccer field back at Pancake Park. I could barely make out the driver’s English. As it turned out, we needed every inch of the enormous limo to cram all our stuff in, which did not please the driver one bit. Mom, of course, questioned Dad’s reasoning for such a large car, and Maple brought up the fact that it was a huge gas-guzzler and very “eco-negative.”
“What do you mean by that?” Dad asked.
“It’s not green,” I told him.
Dad just laughed and took pictures. “It’s the only way to arrive in New York. But next time, honey, I promise I will find one that runs on french-fry oil.”
My dad is not the most perceptive or practical person in the world, but it was a lot of fun to have him around, and he did promise to take me to the soccer play-offs when he returned. Besides, it was nice to be a family again, if only for a week in a Winnebago.
Movin’ on Up
RUMPY
I
MUST SAY
I was both surprised and pleased at the way my humans behaved on the trip north. They had made a fine little snuggling area behind the driver’s seat, where I rode with my pigskin the entire trip. I had named the football “Lukie” for good luck, and the faux Lukie would keep me company until I found the real one in New York. I even enjoyed Oliver’s company. He and Ellie seemed to get along a lot better than when they were married.
The limo ride into the city was a bit much. In the last scent-mail that I picked up before losing contact with Lukie, he told me about watching the circus come to New York and how the elephants had to be taken through the Lincoln Tunnel. Now that would be the way to arrive in Manhattan. Picking up New York scent-mails from Lukie back in Tennessee was nearly impossible, but now that I was here, finding him should — pardon the pun — be a breeze.
I was so happy as we crossed the George Washington Bridge in that ridiculous car. It was a beautiful day, and we all had our noses pressed against the tinted-glass windows of the limo, looking out at buildings that rose to the sky. Of course the McBride family couldn’t make a subtle entrance. Let’s start with the fact that the limo was so long, it took our driver three attempts before he could actually pull up in front of Flutbein’s Hotel. The children rushed for the limo door, and I followed.
My first impression of our new home was this: Slam! Boom! Utter chaos! Mechanical noises clashed all around me, ominous vibrations rumbled under the streets, and each breath brought in dizzying amounts of information. My snout was bombarded with data on dogs, cats, local birds, and residents of the nearby zoo — plus their habits, owners, favorite routes, and recent meals. Suddenly I had access to the city’s scent network with moment-to-moment bulletins on every neighborhood creature. Though some were full of juicy tidbits, none of the scent-mails mentioned Lukie.
When the doorman attempted to unload our belongings, suitcases tumbled to the pavement. Maple’s duffel bag exploded right on the sidewalk, sending her clothes in all directions. The constant parade of people just walked around the mess and kept on going.
Ellie and Barley helped the disheveled Maple stuff her things back into her bag just as a uniformed waiter popped through the revolving front door of the hotel and brought Ellie a note on a silver tray. It was handwritten from Mr. Flutbein, the elderly and diminutive owner of the hotel, who was urgently requesting her help in the kitchen. On a whim, the king of Tonga had stopped in for lunch and was desperate for fresh pastries.
Being a Francophile as well as a charmer, Mr. Flutbein told Ellie that the head chef was on a hunting trip for the weekend, and he implored her to whip up some of her famous éclairs. She agreed to help, but before dashing off, she told us that the doorman would come back momentarily, and we were to strictly follow his lead. Then she put on her Southern charm and slipped several folded bills into the waiter’s glove. Ellie left us at the entrance to Flutbein’s four-star hotel, promising to return later.
T
HE TWINS AND
I marveled at the sight of all the tall buildings. Frankly, I’m better with ground-level views. What’s higher than Barley’s shoulders tends to make me nervous. Well, the doorman was tall, like everything else here, and his name was Freddy. He wore a black suit with a monogrammed “F” on the jacket pocket, and he had a faint scent of his wife’s perfume on his white gloves. He’d been waiting all morning for us to arrive, and we liked him from the start. His manners were exquisite for a human, and whatever he said, we could probably trust to be true.
Freddy was taking a break from the front door, and he escorted us to our apartment. Hovering in Maple’s shadow, I closed my eyes as the elevator took off like a rocket ship, going higher and higher. When it opened on the roof, Freddy led us up a flight of stairs.
Along with four sets of keys, he gave us a box of the chocolates that hotel guests find on their pillows each night. Then he opened the door to reveal the oddest structure I had ever seen. It was a house — sitting on the roof! It looked like something out of Alice in Wonderland. Giant windows lined the walls, and a solid-glass second floor looked like an enormous planter. Outside, a broad ledge surrounded the apartment, sizable enough for sitting or walking, and a huge outdoor water heater took up the northern corner.
“Welcome to your new home,” Freddy announced.
It was a far cry from our farm in Vertigo, and I felt bad for the kids. I gulped and waited for their reaction.
Maple just marched right in, and Barley said, “Cool!” After a quick inspection of the soft new carpets and wooden floors, Maple asked Freddy if it had once been an elaborate greenhouse. Freddy didn’t know. Naturally, Barley disagreed, insisting it was a terrarium of the future, ideal for reptiles and highly evolved humans like him. To me, it was an overblown fish tank at best, and not remotely welcoming. Constant neatness would be necessary in such highly visible rooms, which I knew was going to be a huge challenge for Maple and Ellie. As usual, I would have to set the example.
The Meat Thing
RUMPY
B
ACK IN
Tennessee, the McBride family and I almost parted company, and I had to put my hoof down with regard to what was unreasonable for humans to eat.
It all started when a putrid, smoky smell began to choke me in my sleep. Dragging myself to the window for air, I thought at first that the house might be on fire, and I got ready to pull off a heroic pig rescue. Then I realized the smoke was the residue of that barbaric ritual humans refer to as “frying up breakfast meats.”
I had no choice but to flee. Grabbing my pillow in my snout, I kept my head below the fumes and raced for the door, sobbing all the way. It was a deal breaker — frying my cousins — and I slammed the door behind me as hard as I could.
The family caught up with me quickly and begged me to come home. Ellie immediately identified the problem, and she issued a decree: from that day forward, there would be no bacon on the breakfast table and no mention of the dreaded B word — Bar-B-Q.
For weeks, Ellie gathered nutritious recipes that involved no dead animals. The children devoured everything. A month later, I’m proud to say they looked better than ever, their smiles were more pleasant, and they were much more educated about the world of organic and healthy foods.
Both twins began to oppose the frivolous consumption of meat. Maple even went vegan. I’m not sure whether it was the fuss I made about the bacon or the lunches they served at the school cafeteria that influenced her decision, but I was happy to have a vegan in the house. In truth, though, with my sincere apologies to the nonflying bird population, my very favorite food is chicken fingers, but I felt safer keeping that secret to myself. I was thrilled that both Maple and Barley brought the plight of domesticated animals to the attention of their school class with posters and Web site postings. Barley won a class debate with his fervor on the subject. I have no doubt those two could change the world — or the universe, maybe, with a little help from Lukie and me. What we had started in Tennessee, we would continue up here in our glass house above Manhattan.
I knew we had our work cut out for us in New York. Let’s just start with the hot-dog wagons. They are parked on every corner, and people line up to order. I don’t even want to think about what is in those weenies. Yuck. And the Southern hospitality of Tennessee seemed to be in short supply on the streets.
As for manners, or should I say the lack of them, that was brought center stage when the movers showed up. As they transferred our belongings along the difficult route to our glass house, they grumbled and griped the whole time. Piece by piece, I snorted and showed them what furniture went where. Maybe they just weren’t used to being nudged along by a couple of kids and a pig underfoot. When they finally finished, I gave them a lovely tip of four large bunches of carrots with greenery still attached.
“Welcome to New York,” one of them grunted in what I took to be more of a warning than a compliment.
Just after the movers left, Ellie reappeared like a whirling tornado, spinning out of her flour-and-chocolate-stained apron and into fresh city clothes. She looked around the odd confines of her new home and said, “This will work fine.” Then she quickly gathered the twins and dashed off to orientation at Barton Academy, leaving Syrup and me rump-deep in all the moving clutter.
A
FTER REWARDING
myself with a bunch of grapes that I eased out of one of the shopping bags on the table, I took a break and had a snooze with my Lukieball. The fish tank thing was still bothering me, but New York was becoming more manageable.
