Trapped! (4 page)

“She’s right,” Eric said. “It isn’t legal to endanger an animal while transporting it.”

“He was speeding,” Mary said. “We can all testify to that.”

“He didn’t stop at the scene of an accident,” Alex said. “That’s a crime, too.”

The police officer looked from one to the next.

“I agree that you need to find that truck driver,” Jacob said, “but not to return the hog. Find Hogman so you can file charges.”

“For people who just happened to see a pig fall off a truck, you all seem to know a lot about the law.”

“I’m a licensed humane officer,” Eric said.

“I’m a trained animal rescue worker,” Mrs. Sunburg said.

“I’m a spy,” Benjie said.

The officer nodded. Then he wrote down each of their names, addresses, and telephone numbers. “Since the driver left the scene,” he said, “I’m giving temporary custody of the hog to Foothills Animal Rescue.”

“As long as you’re here,” Alex said, “do you want to see the illegal leghold trap that someone has set in the woods? It’s not far.”

“That’s a matter for the game warden,” the officer said. He got back in his car.

They watched the patrol car turn around, then drive away.

“I don’t think finding the pig’s owner is going to be a high-priority item with the police,” Alex said.

“You’re right,” Eric said. “This county has unsolved murders and robberies, to say nothing of the large number of meth labs. The cops don’t have time to look for that truck driver.”

“He broke the law,” Benjie said. “He shouldn’t get away with it.”

“We saved the pig,” Mary said, “and that’s what matters.”

“If the owner isn’t found, we get to keep the pig,” Alex said.

“Let’s go,” Eric said to Jacob. “This little piggy needs to get to the vet.”

“Call us when you know how she is,” Mrs. Sunburg said.

“We’ll start building the pen,” Alex said.

“Good luck, Piccolo,” Benjie called as the truck drove off. “I hope your leg is okay.”

B
enjie dashed into
the house first, shouting, “We rescued a pig! Her name is Piccolo, and we’re keeping her!”

“A pig!” Pete said. “Oh, no. We are not adopting any pig. Forget it. I was a good sport when you brought a kitten into the house, but there’s no way I’m sharing my food bowl and my litter box with a pig!” He flattened his ears, made the fur stand up on his back, and growled
.

“Where on earth did you find a pig?” Mrs. Kendrill asked.

Alex, Rocky, Mary, and Mrs. Sunburg explained what had happened.

“A pig is even better than a rhinoceros,” Benjie said.

“I checked the zoning regulations about animals before I bought my place,” Mrs. Sunburg said. “It would be all right to keep a pig on my property, providing the neighbors don’t object.”

“We’re the neighbors,” Alex said. “We won’t object.”

“
I object!” Pete said. “Do you know how much kitty num-num a pig would eat?”

“I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a pet pig,” Mary said. “They’re very intelligent animals.”

“
Not as intelligent as cats,” Pete said.

“They’re even smarter than dogs,” Mary said.

“Well, that doesn’t take much,” Pete said.

“Except for humans and the great apes,” Mrs. Sunburg said, “pigs are the most intelligent animals there are.”

Pete growled. “I beg to differ with you. How many pigs do you know who can read? How many pigs have written a book? How many pigs can tell you what a CAT scan is?”

“Alex, would you please feed Pete?” Mrs. Kendrill said.

“He doesn’t need food,” Alex said. “I think he’s just excited.”

“Then shut him in the bathroom while we talk,” she said. “He makes such a racket, I can hardly think.”

“Racket? You call my valued opinion a racket? I’m telling you, not all animals are created equal. Adopting a pig would be a catastrophe!”

Alex started toward Pete.

“Watch this,” Pete said. He ran to the base of the entertainment center, crouched, moved his hind feet up and down a couple of times, then propelled himself upward. Ever since he had read the definition of “catapult” in Alex’s dictionary
—“a device for launching an airplane at flying speed; to throw or launch as if by a catapult”—he had been doing this trick.

He landed with a thud on top of the entertainment center. “Did you see me?” he called. “I’m a catapulting cat! How many pigs can do that?”

“Mercy,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “There he goes again.”

“I love it when he does that,” Mary said.

“That’s quite a leap for a cat,” Mrs. Sunburg said, “especially one his size.”

“I’m solid muscle,” Pete replied. He wished the humans wouldn’t keep mentioning his size. In Pete’s opinion, they put way too much emphasis on being slender—especially that uninformed veterinarian who kept suggesting diet cat food.

Lizzy ran to the base of the entertainment center and looked up at Pete, but she didn’t try to jump.

“Will you help us build a pigpen?” Alex asked his dad. “I’ll pay for part of the lumber. I have eighteen dollars saved.”

“We need to hear the vet’s report before we do that,” Mr. Kendrill said. “The pig could have serious injuries. They might not be able to save her.”

“Piccolo can’t die,” Benjie said, his eyes puddling with tears. “She’s the best pig in the world.”

“Her wounds looked treatable,” Mrs. Sunburg said, “but there’s always the possibility of internal injuries.”

“I suppose it won’t hurt to draw up some plans for a pen,” Mr. Kendrill said. “We can figure out where it would go and what materials we would need.”

“Pigs smell bad,” Pete said. “They don’t bathe themselves the way cats do. Don’t expect me to wash her ears for her.”

“Let’s go take a look at my yard,” Mrs. Sunburg suggested, “to see where a pigpen might go.” She opened the door, and everyone trooped out behind her.

Pete quickly put his front paws on the entertainment center and let them slide down while he kept his balance with his back legs. Catapulting up was a lot faster and more fun than getting down again. Although Pete hurried, he didn’t make it to the floor in time to follow his family outside
.

Annoyed with them for not waiting for him, he went up to Alex’s room. Good. Alex had left the dictionary on his desk. It was much easier to look up words if Pete didn’t have to pull the thick book from the bookcase before he could read it. Pete hopped on the desk, turned the pages until he came to the c-a-t section, and began to read
.

Even though he had read this section of the dictionary many times before, he read slowly and carefully. In Pete’s experience, words had a way of calling attention to themselves at the very moment when they would be most useful. That’s what had happened the day he learned “catapult.” Right when he needed a way to get his family’s attention, there was the perfect word, and Pete had been catapulting ever since.

This time, his eyes stopped on the word “caterwaul.” He read the definition: “to make a harsh cry.” Pete took a deep breath and let out a loud, shrill screech. Lizzy rushed into the room, her yellow eyes wide and wondering.

“I’m caterwauling,” Pete explained, and he screeched again. The fur on Lizzy’s tail puffed up, and she ran back downstairs.

Pete’s voice echoed in Alex’s room, as if more than one cat had howled. Very satisfying, Pete thought, and certain to be noticed. Perhaps after he perfected his caterwauling, he would try caterwauling and catapulting at the same time. That ought to be exciting enough to make his people forget about adopting a silly pig.

Satisfied with his new skill, Pete returned to the kitchen. After emptying his bowl of crunchies, he curled up under the table, in the spot where the afternoon sun came through the window. Soon Lizzy lay down beside him. Pete washed her ears for her, licking vigorously until they were clean, while Lizzy purred and kneaded her toenails in and out of the carpet.

That was the kitten’s best trait: she let him wash her ears. He had often tried to wash the humans’ ears, but they didn’t understand that Pete was grooming them and making them more attractive.

Once, Pete had sneaked into bed with Alex’s parents while they were asleep, and had started licking Mrs.
Kendrill’s ear. Talk about caterwauling! Mrs. Kendrill had made the loudest, most harsh noise Pete had ever heard, to say nothing of the fact that she had rudely shoved him off the bed without so much as an apology.

Pete licked Lizzy’s ears until he grew sleepy, then stretched full-length in the sun, and closed his eyes for a catnap.

Half an hour later, the Kendrills returned. Alex and his dad sat at the table with graph paper, pencils, and a ruler. They drew up plans for a pigpen and made a list of the supplies needed to build it.

“I’m going to my spy headquarters,” Benjie said. “Let me know if you hear anything about Piccolo.” He picked up his binoculars and his backpack, then opened the cookie jar.

Mrs. Kendrill said, “No more cookies, Benjie. You’ve had enough.”

“Just one?” Benjie said. “I’m going to watch for flying green panthers and falling pigs and bad guys who trap animals. I might even see a singing camel that’s escaped from a zoo. I’ll get hungry!”

“You can take an apple,” Mrs. Kendrill said. As the door closed behind Benjie, she added, “If that boy can channel his imagination into writing books or movies, he’ll be famous when he grows up.”

Alex and his dad had just finished making their list when
the phone rang. “Gramma heard from the vet,” Mary told Alex. “The pig’s going to be fine. If we can have the pen ready, Eric and Jacob will deliver her at noon tomorrow.”

Alex turned to his dad. “The pig’s okay. Can we have the pen done by noon tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not, especially if we have help.”

“We’ll be ready,” Alex told Mary.

“You’re making a big mistake,” Pete said. “Pigs can’t even purr, and as for sitting on your lap, forget it.”

“Mary says the pig needs a scratching post,” Alex said as he replaced the phone.

“Scratching posts are for cats,” Pete said. He used his often, to sharpen his front claws. He would prefer to use the Kendrills’ sofa, but the humans didn’t like it when he did that, so he settled for the carpet-covered post in the corner, attacking it with his claws extended, tearing bits of the carpet loose. He tried to imagine a pig doing that, but he couldn’t. Pigs have no claws, only those clunky hooves. Why would a pig need a scratching post?

Alex was apparently thinking the same thing because he said, “The pig must use a post to rub against, to groom herself.”

“No wonder pigs smell,” Pete said, “if their idea of grooming is to rub against a post. You’d stink, too, if all you did was rub against the shower door instead of turning on the water.”

“I’ll call Rocky and see if he and his dad can help build the pen tomorrow morning,” Alex said.

“We can go to the lumber store now,” Mr. Kendrill said, “and get what we need. Tell them we’ll meet tomorrow at eight.”

While Alex was talking to Rocky, Benjie dashed in. “I saw Hogman!” he shouted.

“Who?” Mr. Kendrill asked.

“I saw the man in the truck that Piccolo was in when she fell off. He went up the main road toward Hilltop, and he was driving slow this time. He’s probably looking for Piccolo!”

“Were the other pigs still in the back of the truck?” Alex asked.

“Nope. It was empty, but I know it was the same truck; it had those wooden slats on the sides and it was dirty and the engine made a lot of noise.”

“Did the man see you?”

Benjie shook his head no. “I was hiding in my spy bush and I stayed really still.”

“Did you get a license-plate number?” Mr. Kendrill asked.

“No.”

That surprised Alex, because Benjie took his spy games seriously. Alex would have expected him to either memorize the number or write it down.

“Why would I want his number?” Benjie asked. “I don’t want to talk to that man. I don’t want him to find Piccolo.”

“Now, Benjie,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “If the pig belongs to the man in the truck, and if the man wants her back, we may have to let him take her.”

“The police gave custody of the pig to the rescue group,” Alex said. He saw no need to mention that it was temporary custody.

“Maybe he won’t find her,” Benjie said, his lip quivering as if he were about to burst into tears.

Mrs. Kendrill sighed, but said no more.

“He might not have been looking for Piccolo,” Alex told Benjie. “Maybe he lives up the hill, and he was going home.”

•  •  •

At eight the next morning, Pete stayed close to the kitchen door, watching for a chance to run out and join the neighborhood group that planned to build the pigpen. Alex carried two hammers, a box of nails, and a yardstick, but even with his hands full, he stuck his foot in Pete’s path while he went out the door, keeping the cat inside.

Mr. and Mrs. Kendrill shooed him away as they left, too. Pete knew his best chance to escape was to wait for Benjie, who had lingered to fill his pockets with cookies.

As Benjie hurried to the door, Pete followed him, and when Benjie went out, Pete dashed out, too. Benjie pulled the
door shut, never noticing Pete, who loped across the yard toward Mrs. Sunburg’s property.

Pete watched from under a bush as Mr. Kendrill supervised construction. Pete’s whiskers twitched at the smell of the cedar fence posts.

The people dug postholes six feet apart, pounded the wooden posts into the holes, then dumped wet concrete, which they had mixed in a wheelbarrow, into the holes. Rocky held a level against the side of each post, to be sure it was straight.

“We really should let that concrete set before we put the fencing on,” Mr. Kendrill said, “but there isn’t time to wait. Try not to wiggle the posts as you work.”

Alex and Rocky held the posts in place while the adults stretched sturdy wire fencing between each post. Mary stapled the fencing on with heavy metal staples.