The Unlikely Story of a Pig in the City

by Jodi Kendall

  “Oh, Mrs. Taglioni,” I said, feeling my lower lip start to quiver in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded like she heard me, but said nothing in reply. Dr. Stern cleared her throat. “You gave him a good life, Molly,” the veterinarian said gently. “He was lucky to have you care for him all these years. If you need to reach me later, you have my number. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Mrs. Taglioni nodded again as she pulled the door closed. Dr. Stern and I turned around and faced the city together. My cheeks tingled from the cold. Cars whizzed by and people stomped down the snow-layered sidewalk, not even taking notice of us or what had just happened.

  I felt terrible.

  “Now what is it you wanted to talk to me about, Josie?” asked Dr. Stern. “I only have a moment before I need to get Lou on the bus and open the clinic.”

  “Hamlet . . . I . . . I don’t think my parents are going to let me keep her.”

  “No. Probably not.” Dr. Stern tightened her scarf around her neck while balancing her hold on the black bag. I wondered if Mrs. Taglioni was going to bury Ralphie in her backyard and if there were other dead animals back there, too.

  “I can’t let anything bad happen to her,” I said, my voice rising. “I can’t!”

  Dr. Stern stared me down for a minute. I shifted my weight from my toes to my heels, barely able to wait for her answer.

  She had to help me.

  Hamlet’s life depended on it!

  “You like animals a lot, don’t you, Josie?” Dr. Stern asked finally.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I was impressed with the way you comforted your pig during her exam and how you’ve encouraged Hamlet and Sugar to get along. Lou told me that you give Hamlet lots of regular walks and baths, too. I’m happy to hear how well you’ve cared for her.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  Finally somebody noticed how responsible I was being!

  “You have a way with animals, Josie. Has anyone told you that before?”

  “Um . . . I don’t think so,” I said.

  I felt my cheeks warm. It was the first time in a long time that anyone had complimented me on something I was good at besides gymnastics. I didn’t know I could be good at anything besides gymnastics.

  “Tell you what,” Dr. Stern began. “Lou is helping me clean the clinic this evening after the last appointment. Why don’t you and Amelia come by around six thirty? You could bring Hamlet, too, if you’d like.”

  I thought about it for a second. Mom didn’t work today so she had carpool duty, and she was bringing Lucy and me back from gymnastics after school. On Thursdays, we had a quick dinner of sandwiches with just Amelia, since Ellen and Sarah usually studied with friends until later.

  “Can Lucy come, too?” I asked. I’d been so busy with Hamlet that I hadn’t seen much of my best friend outside of gymnastics lately. I needed her advice now more than ever.

  “Of course,” said Dr. Stern. “We can talk about Hamlet’s situation then. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help you, Josie, so don’t get your hopes up, but I’ll certainly try. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great!” I exclaimed, but then immediately felt bad for being so happy right here on Mrs. Taglioni’s stoop, just minutes after she’d shed tears in this very spot.

  “Great, see you later. Have a good day at school,” Dr. Stern said. Her gloved hand tightened the grip on the black bag and she disappeared down the block toward her clinic.

  I turned around and stared at the door of Mrs. Taglioni’s little townhouse. All the curtains and blinds were closed. Her heart must be hurting so bad right now. She was probably curled up in bed with her favorite blanket and a cat or two.

  Maybe Mrs. Taglioni and I weren’t so different after all, I realized. We wanted the best things for our pets and couldn’t always get what we wished for, no matter how badly we tried.

  Chapter 14

  STICKS AND STONES

  The blisters on my palms broke in Physical Education class.

  One of them started pussing and even bleeding a little bit, so I had to go to the nurse’s office to get cleaned up. By next period, Fernanda had heard the rumor that I was sick and rushed to sit next to me in Math, the one class we shared together.

  “I thought you got sent home!” she said, and then noticed the gauze around my right hand. “Oh no— What happened?!”

  I felt my face redden. Other kids were looking at me, too, and the last thing I wanted was their attention. “Nothing,” I told her. “Just normal rips from gymnastics. Been working hard on my bar routine lately.”

  “Ohhhh. Okay.” That seemed to satisfy her concern, since Fernanda pulled her ratios homework from her backpack and said cheerfully, “How’s Hamlet?”

  “Adorable and causing mischief, as usual.” I sighed.

  Mr. Willis called our attention to the front of the room. “Homework, please! Pass it up to the front row,” he called out, and I felt my face flush again. Everything in my life had been so messy lately, it had totally slipped my mind.

  Fernanda wiggled her fingers over her shoulder. When no paper touched her hand, she turned her head. “Josie?”

  “Forgot,” I admitted. Fernanda’s eyes narrowed in concern—I never forgot to do my homework—but she didn’t say anything.

  As Mr. Willis started in on his lecture, I pulled the white gauze off my hand. The bleeding had stopped, and the nurse was just trying to protect the skin. But she couldn’t—that’s not how it worked. I needed my hands, even if they were injured ones.

  I sighed, zoning out, staring at my palms where the skin was raw. Gymnasts called them rips. They were the worst I’d had in probably . . . forever. Usually rips didn’t hurt too bad, just stung a little, but this time, the pain was more sharp and obvious.

  After school at gymnastics practice, each time I chalked up my too-tight, worn grips, I felt dust cake against my open wounds. When I reached my arms high above my head, elbows pinched against my ears, it took at least five swings to mentally block out the burn searing across my palms.

  Still, too tight or not, Lucy’s old grips were in better shape than my ratty ones, and I had to make do. Our big Level 5 meet was in three days and I couldn’t lose my focus now, no matter how many problems bounced around in my head.

  No. I wasn’t going to let blisters or pigs or dead sugar gliders or empty allowance jars or anything get in the way of my focus. I’d worked too hard for this, and I wasn’t going to let my team—or myself—down now.

  At gymnastics practice, Coach was in full-on competition mode, not cutting any of us a break. She expected perfection.

  “Wrap it up, girls! Toes UP! Squeeeeeeze those abdominals! Toes UP! Toes to BAR!”

  We finished our uneven bar conditioning and Coach waved us over to the vault. My stomach quivered as I lined up behind Lucy. I could see the springboard from over her head. I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering Tom’s advice.

  We’ve all got something to bring to the team.

  Tom’s advice helped me before. But my nerves felt electric today, like when a storm is brewing and you’d better take cover before it hits.

  I knew this storm.

  It was fear.

  “Can’t believe we have only two more practices left before the meet,” Lucy whispered over her shoulder as warm-up passes began. “Oh—your braid is falling out.” She quickly fixed it and tightened my ponytail holder.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Maxie took her turn. Sprint, sprint, POUND!

  Butterflies danced in my stomach. “Me either.”

  Becky bolted ahead of us and punched her feet onto the springboard, raising her arms over her head as she soared, tight and long, landing solidly on her feet. We all did the same and looped back to the line. Coach always says warm-ups have to do with muscle memory. Like, your body can be trained to remember certain movements, but you have to remind it first. Each time we switch gears and start a new apparatus, we do a few practice pass-throughs
with really basic skills, just to trigger those muscle memories.

  “Still on for the clinic after practice?” Lucy asked me while we waited to take our turns.

  “Yep.” I pressed up on my toes. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something . . .”

  “‘What’s that?”

  “I ate beef. In a soup.” I leaned back onto my heels. “It was an accident, but I guess that means I lost the bet.”

  “Oh.” Lucy smiled. “I forgot to tell you I lost the bet, too. We had chicken fajitas last weekend. I couldn’t help myself!”

  We stared at each other, a moment of silence hovering in the air, and then both busted out laughing. Coach clapped her hands loudly—one, two!—across the room and I groaned.

  “Vault time.”

  Lucy adjusted her leotard and shot me a grin. “Oh, Josie. Such a worrywart! You’ve got your handspring down! I’m the one who doesn’t get enough height on it.”

  My gaze shifted back to the gymnastics apparatus. “Yeah. I’ve got the height part down,” I muttered.

  Maybe warm-ups are supposed to help my body, but sometimes they just mess with my brain. When we’re moving at a slower pace, I have time to catch my reflection in the mirrors on the other side of the gym. It makes me round my shoulders and then Coach calls me out on my bad posture. Or when we’re waiting in line, I start to overthink the new skills in the routines, and all of a sudden I’m afraid I’m going to fail and let everyone down or get an injury or . . .

  I drew in a sharp breath to block out the distractions. Maxie finished her turn, a few girls ahead of me. Lucy went next, and her vault was solid, even though her legs split a little and her normally pointed toes were a little sloppy.

  When it was my turn, I pretended that I was a pouncing tiger in the brush, imagining how high I could spring, how perfect and graceful my form could be. My angles will be spot on, I told myself. My hands will power off the vault, but not pause. It’ll be a handspring over the vault table like Coach has never seen before.

  “Make it happen, Josie! Tight, tight, tight!” coach yelled from down the line. I practiced saluting the invisible judges. “Quick feet, quick feet! Pump those arms and POUND!”

  I sprinted and punched the springboard hard with my feet, stretching up, as tall and tight as I can be. I flipped forward over the vault, palms pressing down quick on the top. I felt my body whip forward as I over-rotated and flipped, landing on my feet but falling backward and smack! right down on my bottom.

  I met Coach’s eyes. She pinched her lips together. “Watch your control. Shake those nerves next time. You’re rotating too quickly. Mind over matter.”

  “Mind over matter. Right.” Coach could probably hear my heartbeat pounding as I got to my feet and dusted off my hands.

  I moved from the mat and started back to my team’s line. Mandy, a Level 10 gymnast who always wore neon-colored practice leotards and had the prettiest curly brown hair, stood alongside a balance beam, chalking up her feet. She smirked when our eyes made contact.

  “Not bad, Josie Long Legs,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

  Josie Long Legs?

  Heat rushed my cheeks. I lowered my eyes, not sure what to say. The older girls had nicknames for us . . . and mine was Josie Long Legs?

  Even though the cool winter air blew into the gymnastics center from the cracked-open windows, my body felt like it was on fire.

  Josie Long Legs.

  It confirmed my fears that everyone saw how tall I was, how wrong I was built for this sport of teeny tiny, super-strong girls.

  I jogged back to the team and stood behind Lucy. She was so much shorter than me, the perfect size for a gymnast. “You can do this vault no problem,” she encouraged me before our second pass.

  “So can you!” I said, meaning every word.

  My best friend patted me on the shoulder. Instead of making me feel better, it just reminded me of how tall I was growing, and that I couldn’t stop it from happening. To the Level 10 girls, Lucy probably looked like a perfectly petite fairy comforting an awkward gangly giant.

  I wished I could pull my legs into my body like a turtle hides in its shell.

  Chapter 15

  JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED

  After gymnastics, Mom made turkey sandwiches and Lucy and I walked over to Dr. Stern’s clinic with Amelia. Even though the sky is already dark by 6:00 p.m. in the wintertime, there are so many streetlights that Mom told us Hamlet could only come if we carried her so the neighbors didn’t see.

  We hid Hamlet inside my gymnastics bag, zipping it closed just enough so her head could poke out for fresh air. “Awww, poor Hammie wants to walk!” protested Amelia, pointing to the way the pig lifted her snout into the air, catching a scent.

  Amelia held up the leash triumphantly. “Brought this!” she said, and I shook my head. I wasn’t risking Hamlet getting loose in our neighborhood or getting in trouble with my parents. Hamlet met my eyes and squealed in protest, trying to wiggle out of the bag.

  It felt like my heart twisted inside just thinking about poor Hamlet not being able to run around. “She’s not allowed to walk through the neighborhood,” I reminded them with a sigh. “Mom’s orders.”

  “But your mom doesn’t have to carry her! She’s. So. HEAVY!” huffed Lucy, adjusting her grip on the bag. My palms felt like they were on fire, and finally we had to set Hamlet down for a second to take a break in front of the library. “We should make the team carry Hamlet and run sprints,” said Lucy, giggling. “It’d make conditioning more fun at least.”

  “Oh no, my bag’s getting wet!” I pointed at the snow. Hamlet tried to wriggle out of the bag, but I petted her head and commanded, “STAY, Hamlet,” and she nestled down into her yellow towel.

  Ugh. I’d have to scrub my gym bag now.

  It was only a few blocks to the veterinary clinic, but when you’re carrying a heavy piglet it feels like a marathon. We walked up to the first-floor unit of Lou’s townhouse, where Dr. Stern’s business was. Lou was waiting for us, wiping down the big entryway mirrors.

  “Hey, guys!” he said, and Amelia ran up next to him and started going through his box of cleaning supplies. Lucy and I set my gym bag down in the lobby, making sure the front door was closed behind us, and I lifted Hamlet out of the bag.

  The pig immediately pressed her snout to the floor tiles, sniffing everything from the magazine rack to the bags of dog food for sale to the stack of this morning’s issue of City Centennial. Finally, she looped back around and slobbered Lucy’s hand.

  “Hammie!” Lucy squealed. Hamlet oinked and wiggled in response. “You are one big pig.”

  “She knocked me over the other day,” Amelia said. The mirror squeaked as she rubbed it down with a white rag.

  “Not really a piglet anymore, are you, Hamlet,” I said, giving her a big pat on the back.

  “Josie!” Dr. Stern appeared from down the long hall. “Perfect timing. And hiya, Lucy. And look what we have here!” She bent down to pet Hamlet. The pig jumped up on her lap, and the vet laughed, gently pushing her hooves back down to the tiles. “Look how big she is!” Then she waved to Lucy and me. “I’m just starting the afternoon rounds with my patients. You girls want to join me?”

  “Sure!” I said.

  “Amelia, Lou, mirrors are looking good!”

  Lou grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “Mirrors are my specialty,” said Amelia. I laughed at how much she sounded like Tom sometimes. Amelia complained every time we had to pick up our room, but here at the veterinarian clinic, cleaning was like recess for her.

  “What about glass?” said Dr. Stern, smiling. “Windows are next.”

  “Glass, too!”

  “Can Hamlet be loose to explore?” I asked Dr. Stern.

  She nodded. “As long as the front door is closed. Lou, Amelia, help keep an eye on Hamlet, will you?”

  “Yeah—a close eye,” I emphasized, remembering the backyard escape.

  Dr. Stern
gave the younger kids the thumbs-up and motioned my best friend and me to the kennels, which were in the back part of the clinic. The first patient was a speckled cat that was practically as big as Hamlet.

  “Meet Atticus.” Dr. Stern tapped a chart that dangled from a clipboard on the wall. “Adopted recently and just had surgery. We kept him overnight for observation. Eyes are clear. Looks like he’s drinking water and eating.” Atticus stretched his paws out and yawned.

  “He doesn’t have claws,” Lucy observed.

  “Correct. He was declawed, probably many years ago by the previous owner,” said Dr. Stern. “Atticus was found eating out of a Dumpster a few miles from here, and animal control picked him up. When no one claimed him, a new family adopted him. Atticus is well into his senior years now. How are you feeling this morning, Atticus?”

  The big cat pressed his body against the cage, and Dr. Stern squeezed her fingers through the metal bars to pet his soft fur. Atticus let out a deep, throaty purr, making us all laugh. “Seems to be doing just fine,” Dr. Stern said with a grin. “His new family will be picking him up in an hour. Onto the next patient . . . ”

  The cage above Atticus appeared to be empty. I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look inside. Dr. Stern tapped gently on the bars, and an itty-bitty black puppy pressed its wet nose against the cage. It started whining as soon as it saw us, and Dr. Stern unhooked and opened the door, taking the puppy into her arms.

  “It’s so adorable!” I gasped. “Can I pet it?”

  “Me, too!” said Lucy.

  “Sure. This is Oliver. He’s a black Lab, about nine weeks old.”

  The puppy was the cutest thing I’d ever seen—besides when Hamlet was a little pink piglet, of course. Everything about Oliver was so tiny and innocent. Dr. Stern handed him to me, and I cradled his furry, warm body in my arms.

  “Aww . . . I remember when Hamlet was this tiny!” I said. Oliver stretched up and licked my chin, slobbering me.

  Lucy laughed, but then the smile vanished from her face. “Oh no—What’s wrong with Oliver? Is he sick?”