by Natale Ghent
Text and illustrations copyright © 2014 by Natale Ghent
Published in Canada by Tundra Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited,
One Toronto Street, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5C 2V6
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013943887
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Ghent, Natale, [date], author
Millhouse / by Natale Ghent.
Interest age level: For ages 7–10.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77049-639-2 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-77049-641-5 (epub)
1. Guinea pigs—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8563.H46M54 2014 jC813′.6 C2013-904481-7
C2013-904482-5
Edited by Tara Walker
Designed by Kelly Hill
The illustrations in this book were rendered in Micron Archival Ink pens and Lyra Art Design pencils.
www.tundrabooks.com
v3.1
For Mark
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Pet Shop Personalities
1 PICKING ON THE PIG
2 JAIL BREAK
3 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
4 THE PIG PERFORMS
5 THE MYSTERY ARRIVAL
6 THE PIG MAKES CONTACT
7 THE LAST STRAW
8 RUNAWAY PIG
9 OPERATION PIP-SQUEAK
10 MICE OR MEN
11 A PERILOUS JOURNEY
12 BAD BOYS
13 A FINAL BOW
14 MAGNIFICENT
Acknowledgments
Millhouse
A “naked” (or hairless) guinea pig, Millhouse is the pet shop outcast. A great lover of all things theatrical, Milly longs for the stage and for someone to love.
The Pepper Brown
A dark and devilish thing, the Pepper Brown ferret has a heart full of cobwebs and scorpion tails. All he really wants is to eat Millhouse for lunch.
Elliot, the Asthmatic Rat
A great collector of objects, Elliot is an eccentric rat but intelligent in his own dizzy way. He developed asthma as a young pup from sleeping with his head too close to the heating vent.
The Abyssinian
The Abyssinian is a rude and ill-tempered guinea whose bristly coat makes him look like an animated scrub brush.
The Honey Cream
As warm as a popsicle in Alaska, the Honey Cream is a snobby snoot of a guinea who only cares to associate with VIPs (Very Important Pigs).
The Peruvian
A high-maintenance guinea with a messy mop of silky gray hair that is always getting tangled and prevents her from seeing what is going on in the pet shop.
The White Collar
Even colder than the Honey Cream, the White Collar hates everyone and everything except himself.
Abacus, the Mole
A practical little creature, Abacus calculates the sales and acquisitions in the pet shop.
The Gerbils
Too dumb to be considered truly cruel, the gerbils spend endless hours spinning in their exercise wheel to compensate for their empty heads.
The White Mice
Breeding too fast to allow for naming, the white mice all look the same and essentially share one personality. They are easily influenced by those around them.
The Gray Mice
Unfettered and free, the wild gray mice are very sociable animals with an organized and helpful underground. Groups of giggling baby gray mice are often found roaming the pet shop at night, looking for fun.
The Firefly
Millhouse’s silent but loyal friend, the firefly is happy to lend his light wherever he can.
1
Picking on the Pig
Millhouse was a misfit. Anyone could see that. It wasn’t because he had long white hairs sprouting like a funny beard from his chin. It wasn’t because he loved Shakespeare, which is very strange for a guinea pig. It wasn’t because he sang songs or performed plays or recited poems. It was because Millhouse was naked. He was a skinny pig. A hairless guinea. Pink from head to toe and bald as the day he was born. And the other animals in the pet shop would never let him forget it.
“P-p-put your c-c-coat on, Mill-house,” the tiresome gerbils would stutter in mock concern. “You’ll c-c-catch a ch-ch-chill.”
“Yes!” the white mice would chime. “You’ll catch a chill.”
But it was the other guinea pigs who were the most cruel. To them, a hairless guinea was no guinea at all. To them, a hairless guinea was a disgrace. So they chanted endless verses of “Fuzzy Wuzzy,” and Millhouse could do nothing but hide beneath his cedar shavings in shame.
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair,
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy,
Was he?
Yet the worst thing of all—the thing that Millhouse couldn’t bear—was the laughter of the boys and girls who came looking for a pet to take home. How the pig yearned for appreciation and kind words. How he yearned to be loved. But the children would point and wrinkle their noses at the hairless guinea, and say “Ewwww!” and “Weird!” and “What a funny-looking thing!” as though Millhouse had no feelings at all.
Yes, the skinny pig was indeed a misfit. But like all misfits, Millhouse had only to realize the advantage that his uniqueness provided, the special quality that set him apart from ordinary guinea pigs. And so our story begins.
Late at night, when all the other creatures were asleep, Millhouse would unlock his cage, climb down a column of pet food boxes and go for a stroll around the shop. Despite being hairless, Milly (as he liked to think of himself) believed in the value of exercise.
On these nightly strolls, Millhouse would recite great works of literature, some completely in German. But it was the work of William Shakespeare that the pig loved most of all. He’d memorized every line of every play the Bard had ever written—and Hamlet was the pig’s all-time favorite.
But how can a guinea possibly know such things? you ask.
The truth is, Millhouse didn’t always live in a neglected and dusty little pet shop that refused to change when everything around it did. He didn’t always live in a place full of mostly empty cages, where nobody ever came except groups of curious children towing reluctant parents, or shuffling regulars who only bought what they needed, or frantic Christmas shoppers who were always in a hurry because they’d left everything to the last minute. Even the owner rarely came in anymore because he was older than the shop itself. So the animals were left in the care of the Weekday Man (who didn’t really care much at all) and the Weekend Boy (who wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box). And all the cats and dogs and rabbits and exotic pets like parrots and monkeys and miniature lemurs that required too much attention were never replaced once they were sold.
But all this was neither here nor there to Millhouse. He didn’t belong in a shop at all. He was once the beloved pet of a celebrated actor, Sir Roderick Lord Kingswagger, and he spent all his nights reveling in the world’s most famous theaters. Oh, how the pig loved to hear Sir Roderick rehearse, chattering and squealing the lines along with him. But Sir Roderick up and died one night during a heated performance, and Milly was abando
ned to this tired pet shop with only a few books from Sir Roderick’s library of important literature, which he kept in a neat stack beside his cage for comfort.
Now, you may wonder what appeal important works of literature hold for a guinea pig. Let’s just say that people are always making assumptions about what guineas find pleasant—like hard little pellets of food instead of fresh grass, or living in cages instead of roaming about the countryside. But truth be known, Millhouse held a secret deep inside the chambers of his tiny guinea pig heart: he longed to be a celebrated actor, just like Sir Roderick.
Millhouse was also a highly sensitive pig, and he often lost himself during performances, which can be very dangerous in a pet shop, as you shall see. On this particular night, Milly stood in the watery green shimmer of the goldfish tank. He lowered himself to one knee and raised a shiny blue marble to the light.
“To be, or not to be,” he began in his most theatrical voice, “that is the question.”
Millhouse was so caught up in his performance that he didn’t notice the Pepper Brown ferret watching him from the top of a cardboard box across the darkened room. The ferret slipped silently to the floor, his black eyes glittering as he positioned himself right behind the unsuspecting pig.
Millhouse droned on: “Blah, blah, blah, a sea of troubles, blah, blah, blah. To—”
“To die!” the ferret growled, finishing the line.
“Shakespeare’s bones!” Milly gasped as he reeled around.
“To die,” the ferret hissed, “to sssleep.”
Ferrets don’t often know Shakespeare either. But they are clever, clever things, and the Pepper Brown ferret was the cleverest of them all. Endless nights watching Millhouse perform had sharpened his skills. And this was his big moment. He would beat the pig at his own game before having him for supper!
Milly gulped as the ferret gathered himself for the lunge. The defenseless little pig searched the room for help, but all the other animals were fast asleep. There wasn’t a sound in the pet shop except the low gurgle of the aquarium and the light whistling snore of Elliot, the asthmatic rat who lived in the cage beneath the chameleons.
The Pepper Brown licked his whiskery lips. “No more,” he said, his voice lowered to a hypnotic whisper. “And by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural …”
But here the ferret stumbled. Millhouse blinked.
“The heart-ache and the thousand natural …”
The ferret looked briefly at the floor. He cleared his throat loudly as he tried to remember his line.
“Uh-ummmmm. Thousand na-tur-al …”
“Shocks!” Milly boomed in frustration. “Thousand natural shocks!” he screamed, hurling the blue marble with all his might and hitting the ferret square between the eyes.
The Pepper Brown fell backward, shaking his head. Milly ran, skittering and sliding across the floor to the pet food boxes beneath the table that held his cage. The ferret jumped to his feet, snatched up the marble and launched it at the pig. There was a sharp crack as the marble ricocheted off a table leg and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces of blue glass. This woke the white mice, who began squeaking and scurrying, which woke the gerbils, who began running in their exercise wheel, which woke all the other animals, including the guineas.
“Put a lid on it!” the bristly Abyssinian guinea yelled.
“I was trying to get my beau-ty sleep,” the snooty Honey Cream guinea snuffed.
“What’s happening?” the Peruvian guinea squealed from behind her mop of silky hair.
The ferret lunged toward the pig. Milly scurried up the pet food boxes. The ferret shot after him like an arrow, clamping his claws around Milly’s soft pink legs.
“Heaven help me!” the pig cried, kicking and struggling to break free. But with all his scratching and clawing, Milly upset a large container of fish food on the table. The container tumbled over the edge, bounced off the ferret’s left shoulder and exploded in a cloud of foul-smelling confetti. The Pepper Brown fell to the floor with a ghastly shriek, fish-food fireworks and all.
The other animals shouted louder still as Millhouse scuttled onto the table and into his cage. The Pepper Brown streaked after him, springing off Milly’s stack of important literature and landing on the cage in a fury of claws and yellow-stained teeth just as the pig slammed the door and locked it.
“You think you’re safe?” the ferret snarled, his eyes blazing. “I could tear this cage to pieces!”
“Get thee gone, dog!” Milly said, his voice quaking.
This sent the Pepper Brown into a terrible rage, because if there’s one thing a ferret does not like it’s a dog—especially the small terrier kind, who have been known to hunt ferrets. The Pepper Brown smashed his fists on the cage, spitting through the bars. His hot breath filled the air as he searched for a way in. He tore at the door with his claws and teeth. He flew to the top of the cage, then to the bottom. He shot to the sides, around the back and up to the top again. Then all at once he stopped. Withdrawing his claws, he slipped down from the cage and began licking his injured shoulder, slowly and carefully. And then his lips curled into a sinister smile. “I’ll wait for you, Millhouse,” he said in a calm, soft voice. “I have nothing but time.”
Milly cowered in fear, his guinea heart pounding, his skinny pink legs shaking, until the ferret slunk over the edge of the table and was gone.
“He’s a devil,” the pig exhaled at last, his body still trembling. “A natural-born devil.”
The pet shop grew quiet again as all the animals settled back to sleep. All except Milly. The poor pig peered into the night, expecting the Pepper Brown’s demonic face to loom out of the darkness once again. But when he could stand guard no longer, the naked guinea crawled beneath his mound of cedar shavings and collapsed, shivering and shuddering until morning.
2
Jail Break
The morning light poured like honey through the pet shop window, chasing away the darkness and the ghost of the ferret from the night before. Of course the gerbils had been up for hours, whirling around and around in their exercise wheel, racing after mirages only they could see.
By the time the Weekend Boy arrived to open the shop, the other guineas were snuffing and preening, the mice were squeaking and wrestling, the chameleons were clinging to their branch, the mole was tallying his worm pellets and the asthmatic rat was beginning his daily house-decorating ritual. Elliot whistled brightly when he discovered a particularly nice picture of a hamburger in his morning paper. Smacking his lips, he arranged the hamburger with pride next to a photo of a milkshake he’d found the day before.
Looking around at all the activity, Millhouse gave a great sigh. Everyone was going about their business in the usual way. Everyone except him. Instead of cleaning and grooming himself like he always did—instead of fluffing up his cedar shavings and letting his beard air in the sun—Milly lay on the floor of his cage. He didn’t even rustle when the Weekend Boy filled his little silver dish with food and changed his water.
Now, everyone knows that a guinea who ignores his food is not a happy guinea at all. Millhouse was depressed. His usual rose-colored philosophy had been dampened by an uncharacteristic wash of gray. How could Milly survive in a pet shop like this? There was no joy here. There was no reason to be excited or enthralled. Millhouse wanted to be back in the theater, with the smell of wig powder and floor polish and greasepaint. He longed for the church-like hush of the crowd as the chandeliers dimmed and the red velvet curtain was drawn. He yearned for the hustle and bustle of the dressing room, where the actors jostled and primped, and none more so than Milly’s dear Sir Roderick Lord Kingswagger. How he loved to watch Sir Roderick preen before a performance, trimming his beard as he rehearsed his lines, his deep voice booming over the laughter and high spirits of his comrades.
A pig of Milly’s talents did not belong in a pet shop, especially a dusty old forgotten one where none of the other animals even knew about the theater, let
alone Shakespeare. How could a guinea as sensitive as Milly possibly thrive in such a place? In fact, how could he go on living at all? Nothing could rouse him today. Nothing could lure him from beneath his blanket of cedar shavings. Nothing, except—
The bells on the door of the shop jingled cheerfully. The first children of the day had arrived!
Millhouse sprang to his feet, kicking his shavings to one side. Running his small pink paws through his beard, he gave a quick shudder to smooth his skin before racing to the front of his cage. Smiling his warmest smile, he gazed smartly at the boy and girl who’d entered the shop.
But this Saturday, like every Saturday before, the children passed Milly’s cage without so much as a how do you do.
“At least they didn’t laugh,” Milly told himself. “Perhaps they’ll notice me on their second time around.” He struck a dramatic pose, hoping to catch their attention.
The children poked at the chameleons and peered at the mice. They made gulping fish faces through the aquarium glass. They rattled the rat’s cage and laughed at the gerbils. They stroked the Peruvian guinea, whose silky gray hair was always in her eyes, and admired the bristly brown Abyssinian, who wasn’t the least bit friendly, and clucked at the snooty Honey Cream. But they did not notice Milly. He would have to try harder. He cleared his throat, preparing to recite a poem.
When the children came to the Pepper Brown’s cage, they stopped.
“Where’s the ferret?” the girl asked, peering inside. “Have you sold him?”
“Has the ferret been sold?” asked Abacus, the mole, his paws hovering over the pellets in his dish, ready to calculate the sale.
The Weekend Boy scratched his head. “He’s an escape artist,” he said, inspecting the chewed wire on the ferret’s cage door. “A regular Houdini.”
