Swine Not?

by Jimmy Buffett

  Maple brought out my sheepdog suit, and they helped me into it. The twins slipped on the sweatshirts, and then they attached me to a leash. Off we went. We all looked very official, although several passing dogs gave us very strange looks.

  I don’t think I would have won Best in Show at the Madison Square Garden dog show, but it did get me across Fifth Avenue and into the park. I picked up the scent of my Lukieball instantly. Barley followed my lead and found it sitting against a chestnut tree.

  If I could find my Lukieball, my chances of finding the real Lukie were beginning to look up.

  CHAPTER 26

  That’s What Moms Are For

  BARLEY

  DAD HEADED back to his aliens in Iceland. Hopefully he’d find his pot of gold at the end of an arctic rainbow, but either way, he left behind some happy memories. After losing the state championship, the Barton Academy Falcons hung up their soccer cleats until the spring season — all but me. I did get selected to attend the Red Bulls Academy, and it was so cool.

  The field was under a giant bubble dome right next to Giants Stadium, and we played every weekend when the Red Bulls weren’t in town. Soccer was now a cold-weather sport. Who would have guessed that?

  The other big discovery in New York life was ice-skating. I had thought about going out for the hockey team before Red Bulls soccer had come my way, and I kind of got hooked on skating — another wonder of living across the street from Central Park, where there were huge frozen ponds when it got cold enough.

  Back in Vertigo, ice was something we put in our tea every day, and snow might have fallen in Nashville three or four times in my whole life. Winter there was just a constant procession of gray clouds and cold temperatures that put people into a hibernation frame of mind. But in New York, like everything else, they made the most out of cold weather.

  Maple and I attempted ice-skating for the first time one Sunday afternoon in late October, when Mom had the day off and took us to the ice rink in the park. She had brought along one of her hotel sous-chefs, a woman named Ilga who came from Finland — where ice skates must be as natural to feet as toenails. To all our surprise, we were up and gliding around in about fifteen minutes. An hour later, we had advanced beyond basic gliding and had moved on to stopping backward and crosscutting.

  Maple really took to the ice like a fish to water, and as much as I laughed and fell and motored around, most of all, I enjoyed watching Maple. For a girl who had never set foot on a frozen pond, she was remarkable. And then there was the stunning blue skating outfit she had pulled together overnight. People on the ice asked her where she bought it. She beamed and answered, “I made it.”

  Ilga said Maple was a natural on the ice. Several of my sister’s friends from school showed up at the rink, and I guess the competitive gene kicked in. By the end of the day, Maple had done her first spin. It was simply great fun, and Mom even included Rumpy. She had bought a telescope for the fish tank and had aimed it at the rink. It stood in front of our big window, facing the park, and Mom had taught Rumpy how to look through it. I know our pig is capable of things way beyond most people’s understanding, but seeing her peering into a telescope atop a New York high-rise was a startling thing. Before leaving the rink, we all skated to the middle of the ice, made a circle, and waved in the direction of the fish tank on top of Flutbein’s. I knew that somewhere up on the rooftops, a pig tail was wiggling.

  Meanwhile, back in the soap-opera world of the hotel kitchen, all the attention Mom was receiving from food critics and diners was not going unnoticed by the Hunchback from Hackensack. Freddy had told us the word around the hotel was that Boucher was having an ego meltdown. Maple said there is nothing in the world like a jealous male. In Mom’s case, this jealousy was translated into needless tasks and constant spying. The only thing that seemed to make Boucher the least bit happy was when celebrities came to the restaurant.

  We had our own name for Boucher in our house, but Freddy told us the hotel staff had nicknamed him “BCG,” which stood for “Big Carnivorous Groupie.” This referred to his creepy obsession with rare meat and the stars that consumed it. One of Freddy’s stories was about a vegan soprano from the opera who had used her jacket to lay a chunk of prime rib to rest and had lectured the Hunchback about his entrée, stating that it still had a beating heart. Boucher, of course, showed little concern. He dismissed the opera star as a “tree-hugging animal lover,” but for every vegan opera star, he had scores of famous people who loved the rare-meat buffets that oozed buckets of juicy blood. And he fawned shamelessly over each flesh-eating, chain-smoking celebrity. In framed photos lining his office wall, Boucher stood beaming alongside countless stars — as if they were his best friends.

  The other rumor Freddy told us was even darker. One of the waiters said that the reason Boucher loved the historic kitchen so much was that it had once been a dungeon. He put five-foot ovens in the old stone wall, and in the corner, where he hung a velvet curtain, an icy draft filtered over the floor. The midnight mop girls refused to cross the room, swearing his corner was haunted. Sorrowful stories circulated of a padlocked freezer room with animal bodies hanging from above in ten-degree temperatures. One of the mop girls told the others what she’d seen through the keyhole: the haunches of an elephant, a dozen frozen koalas, two pandas already sectioned, and a frozen net filled with baby dolphins.

  When we told these stories to Mom, she said Boucher was not a day at the beach, but she dismissed the lurid tales as gossip. I wanted to get even, but Mom told me that was the wrong approach. She needed the job, and things would work out in the end. She assured us that karma eventually takes care of people like Boucher, and that nothing he did would cause her to rip off her apron and quit. She told us that soon she would speak to Mr. Flutbein about the exotic-pet ban — after she had gotten to his heart. She would do this as any great chef would: through his stomach. In the meantime, she reminded us that our responsibility was to keep Rumpy out of the sight of the paparazzi-pandering Frenchman.

  I guess that’s what moms are for.

  CHAPTER 27

  A Pig in Sheepdog’s Clothing

  RUMPY

  WELL, I WAS a pig in sheepdog’s clothing after the rescue of my Lukieball. Even though I was back on the roof, I now had my telescope.

  What a wonderful gift Ellie had given me! Sure, I could watch the kids ice-skate, but I could also use the scope to scan the skies. I wasn’t looking for ordinary pigeons that dive-bomb the sidewalks for food. I was looking for that special squadron I had seen flying high as if they were on patrol. So far I didn’t seem to be on their radar, but sooner or later they had to spot me.

  It didn’t take long. One day they came speeding down Fifth Avenue just above the trees, and then they made a precision turn over the zoo. They landed together on one of the big rocks by the road.

  I kept my eye glued to them. They seemed to be taking a break. I had to get down there, and now I had the means to do it.

  The kids were off at school, and Ellie was down in the hotel kitchen. She wouldn’t be back until around five. Superman may have had his phone booth, but Superpig had Maple’s closet. I coaxed the sheepdog outfit off its hanger and onto the floor, where I stuffed myself into it in record time. Once I was camouflaged, I headed for my traveling machine hidden in the deserted banquet room. I knew I wasn’t supposed to use it unless the kids were around, but this was an emergency. I had to get to those pigeons.

  I loaded myself like a torpedo into a tube, and I made my way out of the hotel. I overcame my urge to speed down the hallway like a skateboarder and took my time getting down the elevator. I came out the side entrance, where the flower trucks made their deliveries.

  I left my table on the loading dock, and as much as it went against my grain as a pig, I tried to act like the dogs I had seen. I even raised my leg at the first tree I passed on my way into the park.

  I had to find the pigeons. My vision was a little blocked by the costume, but I finally spotted the r
ock in the distance. I hurried toward it, only to arrive just as the pigeons lifted off in formation. I watched them circle and dive, and then they turned toward downtown. Of course I was disappointed, but I wasn’t discouraged. I had made my way out of the four-star prison by myself. I was on my way to freedom.

  My second escape from the fish tank came off again without incident. I pretended to be sleeping late while the kids and Ellie went through their morning routine for work and school, but once they were gone, so was I. I memorized the direction of the day’s breeze, along with the dominant smells.

  I did not see the pigeons that day, but I made a very important discovery — a subway map of New York and the surrounding boroughs. A gift from the pig gods! I memorized it before I gobbled it up. Now that I could combine smells with locations, New York didn’t seem so daunting.

  The following day, I was at it again. This time, there was less airborne clutter, and I could finally start using that God-given snout of mine. The wind was coming from the river, and it was alive with information. You name it, it was in the air: smells from Mexican kitchens, Korean grocery stores, Laundromats, fish markets, and flower shops. Often I picked up chatter from residential pets . . . but only cats or dogs, never pigs.

  I spotted the pigeons once again, but they were very high up and moving fast. On the ground, bakery exhaust fans perfumed the air — until a garbage barge sailed by and blotted everything out for an hour. But then it happened. Like a message in a bottle floating on a breeze — I got a whiff of Lukie.

  I locked on it like a heat-seeking missile and was rambling along at top pig speed when I got a terrifying scent. The primal alarm in my brain was screaming, “Hot dog! Hot dog!” — and there, in front of me, was the same hot-dog vendor from my first stroll through the park. All I needed was a second confrontation with that guy. One more sighting of a pig near a hot-dog vendor would probably mean a call to the National Guard to convert me into a basketful of weenies.

  My heart told me to push on, but my pig sense said it was too risky. Ten minutes later I was back on the couch, waiting for my humans to come home. It had been quite a day. At least I had found a trace of Lukie. I prayed that he would pick up a trace of me.

  CHAPTER 28

  Cabin Fever in a Fish Tank

  BARLEY

  IF THERE WAS ever a sign that soccer season was changing to hockey season, it was the freak storm that came roaring out of Canada. It snowed like something none of us had ever seen before. Our fish tank was covered with a curtain of snow, and we all overslept. Maple, Mom, and I bundled up and rooted our way out onto the roof and had a grand time slipping, sliding, and tossing snowballs — with one eye on the roof door. Then Mom ordered us back inside, and we all huddled around the TV, eating steaming bowls of oatmeal while we watched the Weather Channel. The city streets were blanketed in the stuff. Traffic backed up to New Jersey and Connecticut. Schools were closed, and they were telling people to stay inside unless they absolutely had to go out.

  Mom got a frantic phone call from Boucher earlier than usual, saying that the hotel was full and everyone needed to be fed. Off she rushed to the kitchen after giving us the familiar chore of keeping an eye on Rumpy.

  Did we ever. As soon as Mom was gone, Maple and I zipped Rumpy into her dog suit, stuffed her in the room-service table, and headed to the park to continue our snowball fight. That was big fun. Then we spent the afternoon cuddled up in the fish tank, watching cartoons. Maple made lunch, and we were as happy as clams until loud noises interrupted our snugglefest.

  Murray and a pack of hotel workers came running to the roof, shouting and brandishing tools. Maple hurried Rumpy into the closet to hide, and I went out to see what was going on. I almost ran right into Boucher.

  “Out of the way, tripe!” he shouted at me as he headed for the confusion.

  Water and steam were shooting out of a large pipe onto the roof of the hotel. The hot water instantly melted the snow and made a little river that wound toward the stairway.

  “What idiots you are!” Boucher screamed. “This whole hotel will be flooded, and my kitchen along with it.” Then he spun away from the men trying to control the leak. He pointed a long, shaky finger at me. “What do you know about this? What have you been doing up on this roof?”

  My first thought was that he had seen or heard us playing in the snow, and I was waiting for him to shout about our pig. That’s when Mom appeared in the doorway.

  “Don’t you ever yell at my children like that!” Mom exploded. “You can yell at me all you want in your kitchen, Monsieur, but you never yell at my children — or anybody else’s!”

  I don’t think Boucher had ever met Coach Mom before, and it was very apparent that he had crossed an invisible but rigid line. He immediately backed down and spun on his heel.

  He turned to the group of men. “Well? What are you Neanderthals staring at?”

  I heard Murray explain that something was wrong with the main hot-water line that supplied the kitchen and the laundry. Mr. Flutbein arrived on the scene, and Boucher quieted down.

  They closed the restaurant, and Mom came home. A constant parade of workmen marched across the roof. There would be no more room-service-table trips to the park for Rumpy now, but at least she wasn’t alone. Mom cooked for us, and we played Scrabble. Then, when the workmen were through at night, we took Rumpy out for a walk — careful to fill in her hoof prints with loose snow when we were done.

  Our cozy family time lasted until the third day, and then we started to go a little stir-crazy. Up in the mountains, where it snows all the time, they call it “cabin fever.” Anyway, Mom ordered Maple to clean her room. This usually melted into an argument, the only time it ever happened, and Mom would act like a drill sergeant and hover over Maple, observing the cleaning process. This time, however, Maple just scooped up her cat, said, “Yes, ma’am,” and headed for her room. She was making the ultimate sacrifice for her pig, cleaning her room to be sure Mom couldn’t possibly discover Rumpy’s sheepdog costume.

  Being the neat freak, I didn’t have to worry about my room. I just read, watched Premier League soccer on TV, and played video hockey games on the computer.

  Late that afternoon, I was lying in the bed next to Rumpy when a huge ray of sunshine popped through the clouds and down into the fish tank. The Weather Channel reported that the roads in the Northeast were clearing, and the airports were beginning to reopen. I wanted to show Rumpy the big TV weather map, but she was staring out the window at a flock of pigeons that whizzed by. They were the first birds I had seen in days.

  “It’s always a good sign when the birds are flying again,” I told her. I looked out at the hot-water heater and saw no one around. The workmen were gone, at least for now.

  The phone rang, and Mom answered. I could hear that scratchy voice of Boucher’s through the receiver. Mom told us the kitchen was back open, and some big VIP who had been sleeping in an airport in Canada had just arrived at the hotel. He was in desperate need of fresh croissants, so Mom tied her hair in a quick knot, donned her apron, and went down to work — but not before inspecting Maple’s room and giving her a “job well done” kiss on the cheek.

  The thick gray clouds that had covered the city were breaking apart, and patches of blue could be seen off toward New Jersey. We knew the snow days were over, and it would be back to school tomorrow. In truth, like Mom, we were all ready to return to our regular routines, but we still had one more afternoon with our pig. I clicked off the TV and scratched Rumpy on the head. “This might be it, old girl,” I said. “I think I hear room service calling.”

  CHAPTER 29

  A Prisoner of Plumbing

  RUMPY

  CITY LIVING was testing me.

  Just when I had all my ducks in a row and was able to seriously begin my search for Lukie, Murray was back on the roof, and I was back in the closet. This time the whole boiler conked out. A major repair meant a new procession of plumbers, electricians, hotel workers, and the ever-
nosy Boucher. Our once-quiet and secluded fish tank had turned into a miniversion of Grand Central Station. Mr. Flutbein offered to move Ellie to another hotel while the repairs took place, but we all knew that was out of the question because of my presence. We had no choice but to stay and wait it out. I was under house arrest again.

  Bleak, gray days gave way to yet another storm, but this one just dumped an ocean of rain on our heads. Barley had school and his Red Bulls Academy, Maple had extra sewing to do, and Ellie was busy gearing up for the approaching holiday season. It seemed that my only friend in the world was the chubby but cheerful weatherman on TV, and even he was starting to sound unhappy. Now I understood why they called the storms “pockets of low pressure.” I was feeling both: low and pressure.

  The sky remained that shade of gray humans paint their warships, and it was again void of birds. They obviously had better sense than humans and had taken wing to warmer climates.

  If this pig had wings, she would do the same.

  New York had slowly overwhelmed me — and I had just about lost all hope.

  CHAPTER 30

  There’s a Diva in the House

  BARLEY

  I WAS NOT happy about Rumpy’s condition. She hated being stuck indoors, but something else was bothering her. I knew that talking to Mom about it would only stress her, so I kept it to myself. Maple and I were just fine, but Rumpy — as you know by now — was family as well. It was like having two happy children and one unhappy one.