by Joan Carris
“Isn’t it about the same?”
“Oh, no! Wild things are wild by nature. That’s why I hate to see people try to make pets out of them. So we won’t even think about taming the fox kits, not that we could. I don’t know anything so determinedly wild as a fox.”
As he talked, Grampa unwound the cloth strips so that the goose could move about in his cage. He stroked the silky feathers on the goose’s back while AnnaLee put food and water in one corner of the cage. The goose angled his black head to look down at the green plastic matting under him.
“Doc, don’t you think he’s acting kind of . . . well . . . kind of . . .”
“Sluggish,” Grampa Bender finished. “Yes, he is, and I don’t like it. But it’s early days yet.” He draped a sheet over much of the cage and set it on a counter in the corner.
“He’s magnificent, isn’t he? Like a king,” AnnaLee said. “Oh, hey! Let’s call him Zeus!”
“Zeus the goose? Don’t let the goose Zeus loose!” Grampa chuckled at his own joke.
With a tilt of her head, Gabby muttered, “Loose goose Zeus. Foose poose on Zeus.”
Birds, Ernest thought.
WITH THE GOOSE TEMPORARILY settled, Grampa asked AnnaLee to bring the fox kits into the surgery.
“Hoo, Doc, they’re light as a feather,” AnnaLee said as she brought in the cage of tiny foxes. Sir Walter followed, right on her heels.
“No, Laddie,” Grampa told the puppy. “We can’t watch you and work at the same time.” He nudged him away with one gentle, booted foot.
Sir Walter turned to gnaw on the boot.
Grampa pointed to the waiting room. “Ernest, take the puppy out there.”
Ernest snouted the puppy away from Grampa, who shut the door to the surgery. Out in the waiting room, Ernest said, “So, what do you think of the red fox kits?”
“They don’t like me,” Sir Walter told him.
“How do you know?”
“They told me to go away. I was just being friendly.”
“You did the right thing,” Ernest assured him. “The foxes are scared, that’s all. As soon as they can have some fruit and nuts and mice, they’ll be fun to talk to. We haven’t ever had a fox here.”
“Mice?” said Sir Walter, shuddering. “They eat mice? Like the ones Milly brings home?”
“Yes, that’s what foxes do. You eat puppy chow and chicken, and I eat . . . well, I’m not fussy. I like corn bread in fresh milk the best, of course.”
“And Gabby eats fruit,” Sir Walter added. “I get it. But I want to eat sandwiches, like Grampa.”
“Not good for dogs,” Ernest said patiently. He saw how quickly Sir Walter was changing. In a few weeks, he’d gone from being a silent, wounded puppy to being a chatty, active dog. A yappy dog.
To get off the topic of food, which was making Ernest hungry, he said, “Come on, Sir Walter. Our job here is to help Grampa. Let’s welcome Old Man Musky. Very calmly.”
Sir Walter opened his mouth to bark.
“Wrunk!” warned Ernest.
Sir Walter closed his mouth.
Gabby muttered, “Bossiest pig in the world,” but she joined Ernest and Sir Walter at the muskrat’s cage. It sat in the corner where Grampa had first put it.
The big old muskrat glowered at them. “Go away! It’s time for sleeping.”
“No, it’s not,” Sir Walter said. “Nap time is over. I’m up, see?” He bounced up and down so as to be more noticeable to the muskrat.
Old Man Musky gave a ferocious growl.
“I beg your pardon!” Gabby said frostily. “We’re here to greet you.”
Ernest fidgeted. “Excuse me, Mr. Muskrat, we just wanted to welcome you to the Bed and Biscuit. Grampa will be with you presently. He’s a doctor for animals. I understand you have a sore foot.”
“What is this? Some kind of stupid ZOO?” the muskrat snarled.
“Not in front of the puppy!” said Ernest.
“I like him,” Sir Walter said. “He’s funny.”
Old Man Musky squealed fiercely and beat his tail on the floor of his cage.
Grampa opened the door of the surgery. “Whatever is going on out here?”
“Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!” Sir Walter barked shrilly.
“Hush, all of you!” Grampa ordered. “Let’s leave this old guy in peace. Play ball or something.” He knelt down and rolled a blue rubber ball toward the corner.
The puppy crouched low, waggled his behind, and took off.
AnnaLee poked her head around the door of the surgery. “They ate it, Doc. That pile of mush is gone and they’re lapping up the water.”
“Good. Now we’ll see whether they throw it up or keep it down. Be right there.” He got up slowly, wincing as his knees creaked.
Sir Walter fumbled the ball, sending it smack at the muskrat’s cage. Ernest hastily snouted it away. “Outside!” he announced before the muskrat could get upset. “Right now. Let’s go!”
Thanks to the pet door, which Grampa had enlarged for Ernest, all of his family could come and go when they wished. Today, Sir Walter got busy outside marking several bushes, labeling them as his territory. Because he was still a puppy, he couldn’t raise his hind leg, but he gave the job a sincere effort.
Milly sat up in her sunny spot to watch the small dog at work. “He’s claiming the whole property!” she told Ernest. Leaning on her left haunch, she fastidiously groomed her right leg, all the way down to the toenails. “If that isn’t just like a dog!”
“Of course,” Ernest replied. “Remember that TV program we saw about wolves and foxes? They mark their territory, too.”
“Quit preaching,” said Gabby. “Let’s play Guess Where Gabby Is.”
Ernest called Sir Walter to come over so they could play their favorite game. The puppy was following an interesting scent and did not come.
“Wrunk!” Ernest ordered.
Sir Walter paid no attention.
Gabby and Milly called Sir Walter to come.
He ignored them all. Following his nose, the puppy had wandered across the broad grassy square, almost to the house.
“Bad dog!” said Gabby, who adored playing Guess Where Gabby Is.
“Leave it to me.” Ernest jogged over to Sir Walter. “What’s the matter with you?” Ernest knew he sounded irritable and he didn’t care. “We have been calling and calling. Why didn’t you come?”
“Because I didn’t want to. I’m doing something else.”
That’s it, Ernest decided. I’ve never trained a dog before, but it can’t be that difficult. “Sit down,” Ernest told the puppy, “and pay attention.”
Sir Walter sat.
Ernest fixed the puppy with a stern parental eye. “When someone calls your name, you are supposed to come immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so!”
Sir Walter cocked his head to one side. He didn’t say anything, but he was clearly thinking. After a bit he said, “I am Grampa’s dog, not yours.”
Anger burned inside Ernest, but he waited until he knew what to say. “I know how you feel about Grampa, but he has the wild things to care for now, so we are trying to help.
“Do you want to be a good dog?” Ernest went on.
“I . . . think so.” Sir Walter sounded unsure.
“No one likes a bad dog. Remember that spoiled white poodle who was here last week? He never came when he was called.”
The puppy appeared to be listening, so Ernest pushed on. “Being a good dog is being dependable — being a good friend to your human. Are you Grampa’s friend?”
“I am Grampa’s wee laddie!” Sir Walter said. “His braw wee bairn! So sure, I’m his friend.”
Ernest nodded solemnly. “And you’ll come when we call you?”
“But you’re not Grampa!”
“Grampa doesn’t have time now! And you’re supposed to come when Gabby or Milly or I call you. Is that clear?”
“It’s . . . clear,” Sir Walter said.
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Ernest thought, He’s still thinking it over. He’s not convinced.
Gabby lit on Ernest’s head. “Are we going to play or not?”
TO GABBY’S DISMAY, no one played Guess Where Gabby Is that afternoon or the next morning. Tending the wild creatures — plus the boarders and live-in animals — took all of their time.
Everyone could see that the wild animals were unhappy. They feared humans, hated wire cages and all the strange smells, and longed to be in their natural homes.
Old Man Musky was not only homesick, he was also in pain. Grampa had been forced to amputate about a third of his right hind foot to save the rest of that foot — and the muskrat himself — from a dangerous infection. Now the muskrat wore a wide collar around his neck to keep him from gnawing his bandaged foot.
Ernest sat by Old Man Musky’s cage. “Tell me if you need anything.”
“Go away.”
“I promise you’ll feel better soon. Give it time.”
“Not going to get better. Going to die here in this terrible place.”
“Not if Grampa can help it! This is the best place in the world. You are one lucky muskrat, Mister!”
While the muskrat kept a stubborn silence, Ernest could hear Grampa on the phone with his friend Joseph, the wildlife vet.
“Yes, I know Canada geese usually mate for life,” he told Joseph. After a long talk, Grampa said, “Okay, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing.”
Ernest felt Old Man Musky’s eyes on him, but all the muskrat did was make a soft R-r-rrumph sound, and then he sank into sleep.
Good, Ernest thought. Grampa often talked about sleep. “Nature takes over during sleep,” he told people. “Animals rest and heal and recover naturally.”
As he sat there, Ernest puzzled over their problem with Zeus the goose. Was the big bird getting better as he slept? I wonder if he would talk to another bird, like Gabby? The goose had now been at the Bed and Biscuit for over twenty-four hours, and had eaten nothing.
When Gabby finally arrived in the office, it was nearly noon.
“What’s been keeping you?” Ernest asked.
“Oooh, it’s a grumpy little piggy today.” She shook her beak in his face.
Ernest squealed in anger.
“Look here,” Gabby said, backing away, “you have your work and I have mine. The birds in our aviary depend on me to visit them. I bring the news — vital information about upcoming feedings. They need attention, too, you know!”
Chastened, Ernest lowered his snout. “I thought you were just doing the hokey-pokey for their entertainment.”
“Honestly! The hokey-pokey is our exercise class! Do you want them all moping on their perches?”
“Well . . . no. It’s just that our goose isn’t eating. Would you talk to him?”
“Of course. You go get him some corn.” Gabby flew into the surgery and lit on the counter near the Canada goose.
On his way to the barn, Ernest talked to himself. And she thinks I’m bossy! Hah!
Ernest went to the tack room in the barn where Grampa kept feed bins, a bin for apples, and his saddle and bridle for Beauty. Ernest got a big old pie pan in his mouth and scooped corn into it from the corn bin. Moving slowly to keep the pan level, he returned to the office.
Snouting the pan through the pet door proved to be tricky. Finally, by tilting the pan a bit, he managed to snout it to the inside. And then he was inside, too, delighted with his dependable brain for figuring out the way.
Trotting toward the goose in the surgery, Ernest began a little song about his brain:
“Oh, I am a lucky, a very fine, plucky young pig! For I have a most dependable BRAIN!”
Well, it’s a start, he thought. I’ll work on it the next time I’m in the shower.
Gabby was walking to and fro in front of the goose’s cage.
“I got it,” he told her. “Do you think he’ll eat it?”
She flew down and selected a few kernels of corn, which she dropped close to the goose’s long, black beak.
The goose turned one dark eye on Gabby, then on the corn she had offered. He inclined his head, as if to say thanks, then closed both eyes. He shifted slightly from one foot to the other and settled his feathers for sleep.
On the floor below, Ernest heard only silence. No one moved. No beak scrabbled hungrily for corn. “Let’s go to the house for lunch,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll eat if we leave.”
Gabby flapped down to his head. “All he wants is to go home,” she said.
On the way back to the house, Milly and Sir Walter joined them. Sir Walter ran tight little circles around Ernest all the way to the house. “Watch this! I’m fast, huh? I’m fast, aren’t I?” panted Sir Walter.
“Very fast,” said Ernest, afraid he would either step on the puppy or trip over him.
“This afternoon,” Gabby announced, “we’re going to play Guess Where Gabby Is.”
“After naps,” said Ernest, who needed time off from being a parent.
WHILE SIR WALTER, Milly, and Gabby napped after lunch, Ernest went on rounds with Grampa. “Man, it’s gorgeous out here,” Grampa said as he tramped across the pasture toward Beauty, who was galloping to meet them.
Today Grampa rode only a short time before brushing Beauty and getting on with chores. Animals got fresh bedding very often, which was one of Ernest’s jobs. Working with Grampa, Ernest delivered fresh water, feed, and anything else the animals required.
In midafternoon, Ernest jogged to his personal pig shower beside the porch steps. He pulled the chain and delicious water poured down on his head and back. Soothing water. He began to feel like his normal, positive self, and so he went back to composing his song.
“Oh, I am a lucky, a very fine,
Plucky young pig,” he sang with vigor.
“I can think, I can ponder,
My mind does not wander,
For I have a brain and it’s big.
I’m a pig!”
Satisfaction washed over Ernest along with the water. The song about his brain was coming along, yet he wanted to work in something about how dependable his brain was. Song is poetry, he thought, and dependable is not very poetic.
Into his peace came Gabby, Milly, and the puppy, bursting one after the other out of the pet door and onto the porch.
“Let’s play chase!” cried Sir Walter.
“Wrackkk!” went Gabby. “We are playing Guess Where Gabby Is!”
Milly, who often won the game, said, “We did promise.”
“Okay,” Ernest said. “No peeking!” The three formed a huddle, all heads in the center, all eyes closed.
Gabby hid in the dense, bright green foliage of a Japanese cedar. From there she called out, “Guess where Gabby is!”
After each of the three had guessed twice and missed, she declared herself the winner. She also won the second game, when she crouched in the deep grass by the cats’ outdoor exercise runs.
Back in their huddle for the third time, Milly whispered, “Listen for where she stops flying.”
Ernest strained to listen, but ears were not his strong point. His strength was in his snout, which was better than any dog’s nose.
Milly’s ears were better. She knew Gabby had crossed the wide yard and gone over by the dogs’ kennel area.
Sir Walter had excellent ears. They stood erect on his head — perfect for gathering information. As soon as they broke out of their huddle, he cried, “She’s over by that big hound dog!”
“Out of turn! Out of turn! He’s supposed to guess last!” Gabby squawked.
“Yes, but he’s right,” Milly said. “We won this time, so ha-ha!”
“Yarp, yarp!” The puppy sproinged up and down with joy.
“Great game, everybody!” Ernest said hastily, before a fight broke out. “Now who’s coming with me to the office?”
“Check out our foxes,” AnnaLee said as the family came in through the pet door. “Just a few meals and already they look better. I named th
e bigger one White Tip for all that white fur on her tail, and I’m calling the littler one Bibby, for that furry white bib on her chest.”
Sir Walter was watching the foxes intently. When White Tip made a testy little yip at the group gathered by her cage, the puppy yipped back at her — a small, fox kit yip. Looking pleased with himself, he yipped again.
“Time to move you girls outside,” Grampa said as he left his desk. “Come on, troops. AnnaLee, as we go by the barn, please get that cage of live mice that’s in the tack room. I’ll take the foxes.”
Behind the house and the red barn, several pens for animals and large birds dotted the grounds at the Bed and Biscuit. Grampa’s group walked by these now-empty pens until they came to the one nearest the woods.
It had a sturdy, cedar-shingled roof, stout fencing on all sides, and one narrow door. Inside was a low, wooden perching shelf with a nesting box on one end of it. Pine boughs and oak branches leaned here and there, and underfoot lay a soft carpet of grass and mulch.
“I’ve stayed in cabins worse than this,” said AnnaLee, setting down the cage of mice. “Okay, let’s go.” She shooed Grampa’s family outside the pen.
Alone inside the pen, Grampa set down the cage of fox kits and opened its door. White Tip and Bibby shivered with fear.
“Here’s a nice, fresh mouse to practice on,” Grampa said as he let one go. The mouse saw the foxes, gave a frantic squeak, and hid under the wooden shelf.
“They’ll never catch it now,” said AnnaLee.
Grampa grinned. “Care to make a friendly bet?”
Sir Walter the Scottie turned to Ernest. “Let me in there! I want to chase the mouse out.”
“That would be fun,” Milly agreed. “And tasty, too.”
Ernest felt that a teaching moment had arrived. “You would enjoy chasing the mouse,” he told Sir Walter, “because you are a canine, like the foxes. All wolves, dogs, and foxes are canines.”
