Welcome to the Bed and Biscuit Read online

  1 Welcome

  2 The Mystery Box

  3 Smaller Than a Breadbox

  4 A Gift of Moles

  5 Mad Milly

  6 Poor Little Guy

  7 Trying Days

  8 The Red Plaid Blanket

  9 The Magnificent Snout

  10 The Search Goes On

  11 Ernest’s Triumph

  Author’s Note

  “WELCOME TO THE BED AND BISCUIT!” The large multicolored bird sat on the desk, holding the phone receiver up to her orange beak with one claw.

  “Hand it here, Gabby,” said Grampa Bender, seated at the desk. He wore a slender, red-gold cat curled around his neck like a scarf.

  “Right now.” Grampa pried the receiver out of Gabby’s claw.

  “’Morning,” he said into the phone. “Dr. Adam Bender here. Sorry for the delay. How may I help you?”

  He listened a bit, then said, “Yes, ma’am, mynah birds are amazing. Gabby sounds just like me . . . or anything else she wants to copy.

  Now, about your dog, Frou-Frou. I have space to board her. You say she’s a Pekingese?”

  On the floor by his feet, the mini-pig Ernest listened briefly, then closed his eyes. Silly things, Pekingese dogs. Ernest had no time for them.

  Grampa hung up the phone, but it rang again right away. Gabby grabbed it as before and again had to give it up.

  Grampa listened, then said, “You mean today? Five goats?”

  Ernest perked up. More boarders were coming, and that meant a busy day. As Grampa’s main helper, he would be needed, which always made him feel good. In Ernest’s opinion, everyone should have a pet pig.

  Grampa hung up the phone. “Next time I get to answer it first,” he told Gabby. “Now, why don’t you count the pencils?”

  The cat stretched out her neck and yawned, showing tiny, sharp teeth. She blinked sleepily, resettled herself around Grampa’s neck, and began licking his ear. Lick . . . lick . . . lick.

  Grampa petted her. “Milly, it’s clean now, okay?”

  Milly went right on licking.

  He put down his pen and unwrapped the cat from his neck. “I sure hope you have kittens when you grow up. Then you’ll have somebody else to clean.”

  He rubbed noses with his cat. “You keep Ernest company,” he said, setting her on the floor beside the pig. “I need to — well, phooey! There goes the phone again. Didn’t know I was so popular.

  “Bed and Biscuit. Dr. Bender.” He was quiet briefly, then laughed out loud. “No problem! You can bring Sherlock anytime. He’s one of our favorites. See you later.”

  Ernest agreed with Grampa. Sherlock was an interesting old bluetick hound. He told fine stories.

  As Grampa finished working, Gabby stuck the last pencils in the mug and began singing. “Happy BIRTH-day, dear ERN-est, Happy BIRTH-day to yeww-OOO!” Ruffling her deep purple and green feathers, she leaned over the desk to look down at the pig.

  Ernest gazed up at her. “You remembered,” he said. “I’m three years old today. A fair age for a pig.”

  Grampa grinned at his noisy pets. “I give up,” he said. “Nobody wants to be inside, so let’s get out of here.” Again wearing Milly like a scarf, he left the office. Gabby rode on Ernest’s head, her favorite seat on the pig, and they went toward the dog kennels.

  At the kennel doorway, Milly jumped lightly to the ground. Dogs were often scary, and much too loud. She streaked off toward the pastures. Grampa got busy measuring out feed for the dogs. Ernest carried pails of water in his strong jaws. Grampa cleaned cages and whistled. “Keeps my mind off the manure,” he had told Ernest when Ernest was just a piglet.

  Gabby whistled with him. Today they were doing “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” in memory of Elvis Presley.

  Ernest dragged each boarder’s bedding outside, shook it vigorously, then replaced it. The dogs barked and yipped until Grampa brushed each one. It took a couple of hours, as five of the eight dog stalls had boarders.

  When the goats arrived, Grampa and Ernest herded them into the closest pasture. Next, Mrs. Farringforth brought Frou-Frou the Pekingese to board for two weeks, and immediately after that came Sherlock, the bluetick hound. Sherlock ambled out into the grassy run attached to his indoor kennel.

  “Glad to have you back,” Ernest told the hound. “I’ll stop by later, but we’re busy right now.”

  Next to Sherlock, Frou-Frou was hurling herself at the wire fencing around her run. “Yip-yip! Yip-yip! Yip-yip!”

  Sherlock eyed her mournfully before turning to Ernest. “Yappy little dust mop, and right next door. Just my luck.”

  “As soon as a boarder goes,” Ernest said as he was leaving, “I’ll move Frou-Frou’s bedding over to that cage.”

  In the large far pastures, Ernest helped Grampa to feed and water the big animals — his horse, Beauty; the four cows; Romeo the donkey; and a small herd of llamas. That done, they stopped in the small pasture next to the house so that Grampa could check the health of the five new goats.

  At last, Grampa and Ernest went to the house for lunch. On the porch — in the center of the mat, where no one could miss it — lay a dead mouse. Milly rested smugly on the porch swing.

  “Good kitty!” Grampa picked up the mouse. “Haven’t had a mouse in the house since I got you.”

  Before going in, Ernest rinsed off in his own personal pig shower. Grampa had built it for him beside the porch. One pull on the chain and water cascaded all over Ernest. Today he treated himself to an extra-long birthday shower.

  Grampa stuck his head out the door. “That’ll do, Ernest.”

  Ernest tugged on the chain reluctantly. He liked to stand on his sparkly white stones under the lovely water for a long, long time.

  A huge crow landed beside him with a rude “Caw!” A second crow . . . and a third. The first crow snatched one of the shiniest stones from Ernest’s shower and flew off with it in his beak. Another stabbed his black beak right between Ernest’s front hooves.

  Ernest squealed in fury as the crow trio winged away, toward the woods behind the house and barn. His loud oinking carried across the grounds of the Bed and Biscuit. Every animal heard Ernest yelling at the thieving crows.

  So did Grampa. “Ernest!” he called out the door. “Time to come in!”

  After lunch Grampa set a golden cake in front of Ernest. “It’s corn bread, just for you, because you have been my best buddy for three years. I don’t know what I did without you, Ernest. Happy birthday.”

  Ernest had been all upset about the crows. Now he remembered why he was the luckiest pig in the world.

  Looking up at Grampa, Ernest thought, I wish he understood animal talk. I need to say thank you.

  “Would I like it?” Milly asked, hovering over the corn-bread cake.

  “No,” said Ernest, taking a big mouthful.

  His pleasure in the cake was interrupted by a fire engine siren, followed by the ringing phone. Snout in the air, Ernest detected a faint smell of smoke.

  Grampa lifted the phone receiver and listened. “Be right there,” was all he said. He lifted Gabby off the back of a chair and put her on Ernest’s blanket pile, next to Milly.

  “Listen up, troops,” he said, patting Ernest’s head. “You three stay here! There’s a fire over at McBroom’s farm, and we can’t let it spread to the woods between us. I’ll be back after we put the fire out. You just stay right here!”

  He grabbed a faded red cap, yanked open the door, and was gone.

  Be very careful! Ernest longed to say in a way Grampa would understand. We’re your family and we worry. I can take care of everything here.

  “I’m scared,” Milly murmured, gluing herself to Ernest’s le
ft haunch.

  “Don’t be such a baby!” snapped Gabby. She turned to Ernest. “Why can’t that man just stay home? Why does he always have to go help people?”

  “Because that’s who he is,” Ernest replied.

  Milly pawed the blankets and kneaded Ernest awhile before settling against him. “Thank you for sharing your bed,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” Sort of, he thought. Not only had his birthday party been cut short, but now he had both the cat and the bird in bed with him. A nap with Milly now and then was okay, but he preferred sleeping alone.

  Ernest stretched out, his snout pointed at the door. Smoke and fire were bad. They always meant trouble.

  HOURS WENT BY as the animals slept, and night came.

  “You’re snoring! Snoring!” Gabby poked Ernest with her beak.

  “Sorry,” Ernest said, half asleep. She went back to sleep, but he was now wide awake, worrying.

  “Ernest! You’re squishing me!” Milly cried.

  How could such a small cat take over the whole bed? Ernest apologized again, and the night wore on. Above the old black stove, the clock ticked away.

  Grampa’s rooster, Rory — the loudest rooster in the county — began crowing as dawn approached. Ernest clung to the hope that someday Rory would be made into chicken soup. He had chased Ernest repeatedly when he was a piglet, new to the Bed and Biscuit.

  Now Ernest stuck his head under a blanket and lay still. Finally Grampa’s white pickup truck roared by the kitchen window. Ernest, Milly, and Gabby lined up at the low window to watch.

  Grampa hurried into the barn and came out with a dark wooden box — about the size of a breadbox. He entered the kitchen with a tired,

  “’Morning, troops,” and went on by, heading for the stairs to his bedroom.

  They listened as he slowly mounted the steps.

  “Well, wouldn’t that frost your beak!” Gabby said from her perch on the back of a chair.

  “Oh, hush,” Ernest said.

  Gabby stuck her beak in the air. “Ah, Lord Ernest Piglet is at it again.” She turned her back and talked to the wall. “I’ll never know why Grampa had to add a bossy pig to this family.”

  “You won’t figure it out, either, birdbrain!”

  Gabby whirled around. “Blabby little fat-belly!”

  “Sorry excuse for a parrot!”

  “Porky smart-mouth!”

  Ernest was running out of insults. What was Grampa doing anyway?

  “Loudmouth lard-bucket!”

  Milly gave a pitiful mew.

  Eager to change the subject, Ernest said, “You win. So what do we think Grampa got out of the barn? I never saw that box before.”

  “He had something in his arms, too, when he got out of the truck,” Milly said. “It’s a bundle. I saw it.”

  “Really?” said Ernest. “Did he have it when he came through here?”

  Milly’s ears flattened and she shook out her fur. “I don’t know, but I’m going up there to see for myself. It’s my bedroom, too!”

  “Well, wouldn’t that frost your beak!” Gabby said.

  Time passed. Ernest fidgeted.

  Gabby flew from the rocking chair to the end of the kitchen counter and began to clean her shimmering purple-green tailfeathers.

  “Do you think the bundle came from McBroom’s farm?” Ernest asked her.

  “Who knows? Grampa was gone all night. He could have been all over the county.”

  “Well, how about that box? Do you know what it’s for?”

  “Honestly! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “But this is important!”

  Gabby stopped preening. “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  At that point Milly marched into the kitchen. She sat on Ernest’s bed where the white tip of her striped tail tapped up and down. Tap . . . tap . . . tap.

  Ernest said, “Well? What is Grampa doing? Tell us about the box.”

  “It’s hot,” she said. “I felt it with my whiskers when I tried to look inside.”

  “Is it a toaster?” Ernest asked. “Is Grampa cooking in his room?”

  “No, but it plugs into the wall like a toaster.”

  Suddenly Gabby cried, “The bundle! Tell us about the bundle!”

  Milly’s green eyes narrowed. “The bundle is in the box. I tried to get a look at it, and Grampa pushed me away.” Her tail tapped faster.

  “You poor thing,” Gabby said with unusual sympathy.

  “Now, Milly, Grampa’s just tired,” said Ernest. “He thinks you’re the best cat in the world.”

  Milly drooped. “Right now, all he cares about is what’s in that box.”

  Ernest went on. “Maybe whatever is in the box could hurt you, Milly.”

  “Right. Most likely a pit bull,” Gabby said.

  Unamused, Ernest and Milly stared at her.

  “Just trying to lighten things up!” Gabby said, waggling her beak.

  “Seriously,” Milly went on, “how could it hurt me? It’s tiny!”

  “You’re sure the bundle is inside the box? And it isn’t food?”

  “I’m sure. He’s talking to it.” Milly glared at Gabby and Ernest. “Have you ever seen Grampa talk to his lunch?”

  “No, but he talks to the newspaper and the TV . . . and of course, he always talks to us.” Ernest stopped short.

  “There,” said Milly.

  Ernest bent down and nuzzled her satiny head. “You think what’s in the box is alive, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And it stinks.”

  “Stinks?” Ernest and Gabby said together.

  “Like the barbecue grill. Outside, where we have picnics.”

  “Hmm.” Ernest was thoughtful. “So it smells like smoke.”

  “Yes,” Milly said. “It smells burned, too. But Grampa must think it’s wonderful. He hardly even noticed I was in the room. So I left.”

  Ernest saw how upset she was. She had slept with Grampa ever since he had found her hiding, tiny and terrified, in his barn. She was so sickly that he had fed her with an eyedropper and carried her around in his jacket pocket. He called her his Milly-Baby, and from the beginning, his bed had been her bed.

  “I’m not going back up there,” Milly announced. “I’ll just sleep with you, Ernest — like I did last night — if that’s all right?”

  “Oh . . . fine . . . sure,” Ernest lied gallantly.

  “I’m on the curtain rod, Milly, in case you need me,” said Gabby.

  But who, or what, was upstairs with Grampa? Ernest wondered.

  ONLY A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, a sleepy-eyed Grampa left for morning milking. Now that it was eight o’clock, the cows were bawling constantly.

  Milly sat up on Ernest’s bed. “He left me behind!”

  “Me, too,” Ernest replied. “He’s tired, that’s all. I’m going to the barn to help. Those milk pails are heavy. You coming?”

  “Absolutely not,” Milly said.

  “No pouting,” Gabby said from under the kitchen table, where she was hunting for crumbs. “Only babies pout.”

  “But I am a baby,” Milly said.

  Ernest bumped the old door to make it open. He decided not to remind Milly that she was nearly a year old — almost full grown.

  Out on the porch, Ernest cast a professional eye over the property. Ahead of him stretched the large, grassy square between their house and the red brick office. On the left side of the square was the low white building of dog kennels, with a matching building for cats on the right. Once Ernest had spied an escaped cat boarder there, crouching on the lower limb of a maple tree. His warning oinks had alerted Grampa, who came and retrieved the cat. Ever since, Ernest had scouted the property several times a day.

  Inspection over, Ernest trotted off to his right, down the dirt lane to the barn, some distance behind their house. As usual he helped Grampa carry heavy things like pails of milk and water, and he listened when Grampa talked to him. Grampa needed listeners, because Gramma
Bender had died just before Ernest came, and Grampa was still lonely.

  With the cows milked and the chickens fed, Ernest and Grampa went back to the house. Grampa talked some more while he made breakfast.

  “Cows have no flexibility,” he told his family. “They think the world is ending if they aren’t milked before seven in the morning and by six in the evening.”

  Ernest munched hungrily on his stew of potatoes, eggs, bread, and fresh milk. He needed to keep up his strength. With several new boarders and the problem in the breadbox upstairs, it could be a difficult day.

  Swallowing the last tasty crust of bread, Ernest moseyed over to his bed, where he could think. What was small enough to fit in a breadbox?

  Across the room, Grampa enjoyed a second mug of coffee. By the time he set his dishes in the sink, he was whistling.

  “I’m off to the kennels,” Grampa said. He stroked Milly’s sleek back, but she did not turn around to lick his hand this time. She didn’t roll over to have her belly rubbed either.

  Ernest stood at the window and watched Grampa walk away. “He left us behind again,” Ernest said.

  “Tailfeathers!” cried Gabby. “The man is not himself. He gave me two pears for breakfast, not one.”

  “Well, I ate nothing, and he didn’t even notice,” said Milly. “He’s thinking only of that thing in the box.”

  “You mean the baby,” Gabby said.

  “Baby! Who said it was a baby?” squawled Milly.

  “No one, but it probably is,” Ernest explained. “That box must be like the heated chick brooder in the barn for those fool chicken babies.”

  “Of course,” Gabby agreed. “It could be any kind of baby at all — a mouse, a wild bird . . . you know Grampa!”

  Milly’s eyes glittered. “We don’t need another baby in the family!”

  “‘Baby in the family,’” Gabby repeated.

  Ernest shot Gabby a warning look. He was in no mood for her mynah-bird repeats. “Not in our family,” he told Milly. “Grampa’s a vet, remember? We take care of animals here all the time.”

  “Not in our bedroom!”