Wild Times at the Bed and Biscuit

by Joan Carris

  1. Welcome to the Wild Ones

  2. Wild Problems

  3. AnnaLee

  4. Ernest Becomes a Parent

  5. Tending the Wild Things

  6. Guess Where Gabby Is

  7. What Is Wild?

  8. Instincts

  9. Back to Nature

  10. A Bad Discovery

  11. Into the Woods

  12. Following the Scent

  13. A Good Day

  Author’s Note

  ERNEST THE MINI-PIG stared at the wild Canada goose in the cage. The goose had a pointed stick going all the way through his neck — in one side and out the other — a few inches below his head. He lay motionless, looking at Ernest with dark, hopeless eyes.

  Big geese are fierce, Ernest thought. They chase folks and flap their wings and fight. Not this one, of course. He’s in too much pain.

  “Out of the way, Ernest!” called Grampa Bender. “Put those fox kits over in the corner, Terry, next to the goose. Cover both cages with these towels, please, and maybe they’ll feel calmer.” Grampa left the office in a hurry.

  From her perch on the curtain rod, Gabby the mynah bird said to Ernest, “So where’s my towel? I’m not calm! First a giant goose and now foxes. What’s the matter with that man?” She clacked her strong orange beak in disapproval.

  Ernest looked up at her. “Remember? The wildlife shelter is having new pens built. This is the day we get all their problems.”

  “We don’t get any nice boarders? We just get the problems?” Gabby flew down onto Grampa’s desk and began preening her dark purple and green feathers. Gabby preened whenever she was upset.

  Today, everyone at Grampa’s place was either upset or anxious. Instead of boarding the usual tame animals like dogs, cats, and birds, the Bed and Biscuit was temporarily going to care for some wild creatures. Because he was a veterinarian, Grampa Bender had volunteered to care for any animals from the wildlife shelter who were sick.

  Carefully he backed into the office with a third cage, smaller this time. In it was a furry, smelly, dark brown creature a bit bigger than a rabbit. It had a large head and twitching whiskers. On seeing Ernest, it gave an angry squeal.

  “Be nice to our muskrat, Ernest,” Grampa said as he set its cage next to the others in the corner. “He’s got an infected foot, so he’s in a bad mood.”

  “Old Man Musky is always in a bad mood,” said Terry. “But he’s been at the shelter since he was born, so we love him anyway. And now — with that bad foot — I’m sure glad he’s here, Doc.”

  Ernest made a few reassuring oinks for the thing called a muskrat. The muskrat squealed twice and turned its back on him.

  “I wish I had your confidence in me.” Grampa smiled at Terry. “I haven’t ever treated a muskrat, but he’ll be in one of my textbooks. And I can call my old buddies from vet school if I need to.”

  Grampa Bender took off his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, as he often did when he was thinking hard. “I’ll work with the goose first, but I sure don’t like the look of those fox kits. How long you reckon they’ve been orphans?”

  Terry shook his head. “We can only guess. Red fox kits are born in the spring, so by this time in the fall these kits should be foraging on their own — a couple of healthy teenagers hunting in open country, know what I mean?”

  “Know what I mean?” echoed Gabby.

  Terry did a double take. “Whoa, Doc! That bird’s amazing!”

  “That bird’s amazing!” Gabby repeated, sounding exactly like Terry.

  Grampa said, “She’s a Vietnamese hill mynah. They’re the best mimics in the world, far as I know. Be a garbage truck for us, Gabby, please.”

  Delighted to be asked, Gabby made the sound of a garbage truck digesting its load of trash. After the clanking and crunching noises, she did the beep-beep warning as her imaginary truck backed up.

  Ernest gave a soft wrunk of appreciation for Gabby’s talent.

  When he quit laughing, Terry said, “Cute little pig, too. You’ve got a great place here, Doc. You won’t be stuck with our animals for long — one or two weeks, tops. The pond will be dredged by then, the new cages finished — we’ll be back in business.” He and Grampa went outside.

  Gabby repeated, “Cute little pig. Cute little pig,” and cackled noisily.

  Ernest fumed. No male pig wants to be little. He wants to be impressive, forceful, awesome. Not small, and above all, not cute.

  “Big-mouth bird!” he gibed. She hated her outsize beak as much as he hated being very small. Before she could retort, he said, “I’m going to find Milly and tell her what’s going on. And Sir Walter. We can’t have him bothering that goose . . . or these fox kits!”

  “Wait for me!” Gabby lit on Ernest’s head, her regular seat on the pig.

  “Mind the claws!” Ernest said, wincing. He wiggled through the pet door and descended the steps with slow care. Like all pigs, Ernest viewed steps with some alarm.

  He scanned the low, white building on the left, where cats boarded. Milly often visited there, cheering the boarders with gifts of fresh field mice. Today she lay dozing in the sun next to the outdoor run of a huge Maine coon cat named Trapper.

  Gabby eyed Trapper and flapped to the top of a nearby tulip tree.

  Milly woke with a wide, pink yawn.

  Ernest waited until she opened her eyes. “The wild boarders are here,” he said. “One’s a Canada goose. Great big goose, with a mean-looking pointy stick going right through his neck! Grampa calls it an arrow. We got two fox kits — runty little things with bad fur. They’re scared. And we got a muskrat thing with a wounded foot and a hot temper.”

  “That’s much more trouble than boarding a few nice cats!” Milly replied. She bent her head down to lick the spotless white circle on her chest. All of her fur, which was mostly a dark orange-marmalade color, glistened with health.

  “How long will they be here?” she asked. “I have a full-time job now, you know, taking care of Grampa, catching mice, keeping an eye on that hyperactive puppy . . . I could go on for hours.”

  Milly slept with Grampa and washed his ears daily whether he wanted them washed or not. She also washed Sir Walter, the Scottie puppy, who liked the attention but squirmed a great deal during bath time.

  Just then, the puppy exploded from the house, the pet door banging behind him. Racing toward them he barked, “Yarp, yarp! I can play, I can play! Let’s chase chickens!”

  Grampa called out, “Ernest! Milly! Keep the puppy with you. Stay here in the yard, you hear me? STAY!” He pointed firmly at the large grassy square between the house and the red-brick office building.

  “You hear me? STAY!” Gabby echoed from her branch.

  Sir Walter jumped up to nibble Ernest’s ear with eager puppy teeth.

  “Where’s your chewy bone?” Ernest leaned his head down toward the puppy so that the chewing hurt less. He didn’t really mind, to be honest. Sir Walter had survived a raging fire and his mother’s death. He was healthy now, and happy. Everyone spoiled him, especially Ernest and Grampa.

  “Let’s play chase,” Sir Walter said when he quit chewing on Ernest.

  “Pigs don’t play chase,” Ernest said gravely. “Milly and Gabby will play with you.”

  “Not this birdy,” Gabby warbled.

  “I’ll play, but no biting, and I mean it,” said Milly. Like many cats, she disliked dogs, but Sir Walter had shown himself to be both brave and loving. No one could resist him for long. Also, she was barely more than a kitten herself, and she loved to run.

  Sir Walter bounced up and down, ready to race. Milly took off in a red-gold flash, and the puppy tore after her, round and round inside the
big square of grass. Ernest flopped down to rest under the branch where Gabby perched and dozed in the warmth of late morning.

  Ernest found he could not relax. His mind kept showing him pictures of that pathetic goose. How could he eat with that arrow in his neck? Eating was important to Ernest. He was happiest when he had a full stomach and just plain miserable when he was hungry.

  Ernest thought about Old Man Musky with his strong smell, big teeth, and bad temper. And the red foxes. He and Grampa had learned about foxes from a TV program. Humans hunted them for sport and for their beautiful red pelts. Yet foxes were smart. They ran fast, hid well, and were good hunters themselves.

  But not ours, Ernest decided. Our foxes are babies and they’re sick.

  And then there was Sir Walter. Since he had begun acting like a normal puppy, Ernest had most often been his companion. Grampa always told him, “Ernest, you’re my puppy-sitter.”

  And so Ernest sat up, a pig on duty. Napping would have to wait. He could see that the days ahead were going to be very tricky.

  AFTER LUNCH, Grampa settled Sir Walter in his basket for a nap and headed for the office. Normally the afternoon was for various routine jobs. Grampa might give a rabies shot or dose an ailing cat. He would order hay, straw, and feed for his stock. Sometimes he mowed the grass or paid bills. Whenever possible, he rode his horse, Beauty. Today, of course, was not a normal day.

  Today they had a wild goose in real trouble, a pair of sickly fox kits, and a grouchy muskrat with an infected foot. Grampa had taken only a few regular boarders so that he could care for the wild animals.

  With Ernest on his heels, Grampa went to his desk in the waiting room. The anxious fox kits had poked their black noses through the wire netting of their cage and were yipping in a pitiful way.

  “I know you two are hungry,” Dr. Bender told them, “but I can’t feed you till I examine you, and right now that goose comes first.”

  He punched phone buttons fast. “Hello, AnnaLee?” He described the new wild boarders and offered her a job, working afternoons and Saturdays. “You’ve been great the other times I needed you, but just say no if you’re too busy. You’ve probably got fifteen boyfriends by now.”

  AnnaLee laughed. “No boyfriends, Doc. Too much homework. But I can help for a while. I need money for Christmas presents.”

  “Can you come today?”

  Across the room, Ernest heard Gabby visiting with the fox kits. He hoped she was making them feel at home. Grampa told the humans who brought their pets, “This is their home away from home.”

  Even for the dopey chickens, Ernest thought gloomily. He was a naturally kind and thoughtful pig, yet Grampa’s chickens tried his patience. If a chicken had a brain, it was the size of a corn kernel . . . maybe smaller.

  Now Ernest went over to Gabby and the fox kits, just to check. No one was ever sure what Gabby would say.

  “I’m being very friendly, Your Royal Nosiness,” she said. “I told them about the Bed and Biscuit, but all they want is food.”

  “We’re starving,” said the smaller kit. She and her sister looked fearfully at Ernest and shrank back into one corner of their cage.

  “Back off,” hissed Gabby. “You scare them because you’re so big.”

  Ahhh. So big. Ernest loved hearing those words. Very softly he said, “The man will feed you after he looks you all over. He is an animal doctor. The best in the world.”

  “The best!” Gabby wagged her bill up and down.

  “Humans are bad,” said the larger kit. “We can’t stay here. Tell the human to open our cage so we can run away.”

  “He won’t know what I’m saying,” Ernest said. “Grampa can’t talk pig, and believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Very bad at bird speak, too,” added Gabby. “Only fair with horse, dog, and cat speak. Knows a little cow and chicken. Of course, he’s much better than most humans.”

  “All humans are bad,” the larger kit said again. “They hate foxes. They hunt us and kill us.”

  “Not here!” Ernest squealed.

  “Ernest, please!” said Grampa. “I’m on the phone!”

  The littler fox kit took one step out of her corner. “What did he say?”

  “He wants me to be quiet so he can hear what AnnaLee is saying. Right, Gabby?”

  Gabby fluffed her tail feathers and launched into a lecture on telephones. She ended with, “Ernest and Milly do not use the phone. I do their calling for them.” Her every feather quivered with pride.

  Again, the smaller kit inched forward. “How do you know what he says?”

  “Well, we live in the house with him,” Ernest replied. “He talks to us because we’re his family. . . . And we watch television. I like learning languages, too. Mainly I know what humans say because I have such a dependable brain.”

  Both fox kits regarded Ernest with awe and respect.

  Ernest sat still, basking in their admiration.

  Gabby said, “We’re building a stage for Ernest so that he can be seen and heard whenever he lectures. It’s behind the barn, right next to the manure pile!”

  Before Ernest could retort, the larger fox kit said, “You cannot be a family. We’re a family. We’re both foxes. It’s just that we lost our mother and father.”

  “But we are a family,” Ernest insisted. “Gramma is dead, so Grampa needs us. He got Gabby first, then me three years ago when my mother died. Last year, he found Milly hiding in our barn. Sir Walter the Scottie is new and he’s just a baby.”

  “We’re a blended family,” Gabby added haughtily. “You can see other blended families on TV all the time.”

  A low, sad honk came from the surgery.

  “Ye gods, my poor goose!” Grampa said good-bye to AnnaLee and went back into his surgery with Ernest right behind him.

  The goose’s black head drooped. So still was he that his barred feathers — a stunning mix of light and dark brown — seemed to be painted on. He resembled a wild bird carved by an artist — handsome, yet lifeless.

  Grampa bent down to look the goose in the eye. “Don’t you dare give up, you great big honker. Give us a chance, okay?”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Ernest, Milly, and Gabby gathered at the full-length window beside the office door. One of their favorite humans was coming: sixteen-year-old AnnaLee McBroom, who lived on the neighboring farm. Three years ago she had regularly fed Ernest, cuddling him and singing to him.

  Now here she was, in a dark green sweat suit and a white headband, jogging up their lane. Her glossy red ponytail swung from side to side.

  Gabby sang, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus —”

  “I don’t think so,” Milly observed. “Looks like AnnaLee to me.”

  Sir Walter the Scottie bounced in from outdoors beside Grampa. In the doorway Grampa hugged AnnaLee and ushered her into the waiting room. “Here she is, folks. Our troubles are over.”

  Panting from her run, AnnaLee knelt beside Ernest. “Oh, look at you! You’re such a big pig now!” She hugged him.

  Ernest closed his eyes in pleasure. What a smart girl.

  AnnaLee petted Milly, stroked Gabby’s feathers, told everyone she loved them, then picked up Sir Walter. “Our miracle doggie. Boy, are you cute!”

  Sir Walter had been born prematurely in the McBrooms’ barn at the time of the fire. Many neighbors, Grampa among them, had come to fight the fire. After it was extinguished, Grampa had found the mother dog under an azalea bush. She was dead, with her nearly-dead pup beside her. Of course, Grampa had brought the puppy home, hoping to save his life.

  Now eight weeks old, Sir Walter was easily excited. He wriggled out of AnnaLee’s arms, ran around the room once, and wet the floor.

  “Be right back,” Grampa said, scooping up the puppy and heading outside. “Looks like we need to have another talk about where to do what.”

  On returning to the office, Grampa said, “Lots to do, AnnaLee. Goose first.”

  “I’ve been l
ooking at him ever since you left, Doc. Why isn’t he dead? What are we going to do?”

  “He isn’t dead because that arrow didn’t hit anything vital. I can’t bear to think about the person who shot him and left him to die. So let’s just try to be real calm.”

  Ernest was torn. He wanted to know what was going on in the surgery, and yet here was Sir Walter, sniffing around the foxes’ cage.

  The puppy poked his nose under the towel on the cage. “I’m Sir Walter. I’m a dog. Who are you?”

  “We’re red foxes. Leave us alone.”

  “What’s a red fox?” the puppy asked.

  Ernest said, “You folks just visit nicely here. I need to be with Grampa. No barking, Sir Walter. They’re sick and they’re hungry. Okay?”

  Both Ernest and Gabby went into the surgery. Gabby settled on one end of the examining table where she had a good view. Ernest made a few calming wrunk-wrunk sounds for the benefit of the goose.

  Grampa had a towel over the goose’s head. Swiftly he wrapped strips of sheeting around the goose, strapping his wings safely against his body.

  “This is one big honker,” Grampa told AnnaLee.

  “One big honker,” echoed Gabby.

  “Hold on and don’t let go,” Grampa whispered.

  Before the goose could object, Grampa snipped off the entire portion of arrow with the pointed end. “Good, good, keep him steady,” he said as he removed the rest of the arrow in one smooth motion.

  “Ahnk,” went the goose. He moved his head very slightly right, then left. Right again, then left.

  Grampa held his breath and took the towel off the goose’s head. Now the goose swiveled his neck more fully.

  “He’s not struggling anymore,” AnnaLee said.

  Grampa and the wild goose looked at each other for several seconds. “I’m going to flush out that wound,” Grampa told the goose, “then give you an antibiotic, and you’re going to get well — or my name isn’t Dr. Adam Bender!”

  As he cared for the goose, Grampa said, “We’ll do the goose first every afternoon, AnnaLee, then food for the foxes, milking, and the fox kits again before you go. I can manage the muskrat. He’ll sleep after I operate on his foot, and then he’ll eat and sleep some more.” Grampa grinned. “I’m boarding just one old dog and two cats, so for a while we can pretend we’re a wildlife shelter.”