by Natale Ghent
Milly stared back in horror, his jaw opening and closing like a loosely hinged gate. “How can you say that?” he whispered, his voice shaking. “You’re a guinea pig yourself.”
“I am a Cavy,” the White Collar said, puffing himself up. “You are a guinea pig. Why do you think you have no hair? Hmmm? So they can poke your skin with needles to see what happens, then throw you away.” He cocked his head to one side, a small, curious smile pressed on his face. “You are expendable!” This last word escaped from his cruel lips like steam from a pipe.
“Oh, how awful!” Milly cried, losing his grip on the rungs. He fell from the cage, tumbling down and hitting the pet food box on the floor with a loud thwap! He lay on the box, dazed and groaning, the dreadful laughter of the Pepper Brown filling his ears.
“You are nothing more than a science experiment!” the ferret called out, echoing the heartless words of the White Collar.
“This can’t be,” Milly sobbed, tears running down his face. “This just can’t be!”
He clutched at his stomach and thrashed from side to side. Rolling off the box, he staggered across the shop. He leaned against the leg of a chair, wiped the sweat from his forehead, then groaned his way up to his own cage.
“How dreadful,” he said. “How absolutely dreadful.” Milly collapsed onto his heap of cedar shavings. He looked at his hairless body in horror and burst into tears again. His mind raced with confusion. How could all his dreams, his wonderful performances, his great volumes of important literature—he himself!—how could all these things be expendable?
“The White Collar must be mistaken,” Millhouse said, trying to salvage his shattered worldview. “I must have heard him incorrectly.”
But he knew he had not. Milly curled up like a baby pig beneath his shavings, his small pink paws clasped around his knees. He rocked gently back and forth for a very long time, the comfort of sleep folded neatly beyond his reach. He tossed and turned through the night, the dark specter of scientific study haunting his troubled thoughts. He shouted out several times, then finally sniffed and moaned himself to sleep as the thin morning light crept through the pet shop window.
7
The Last Straw
Millhouse languished in his cage, the weight of the White Collar’s words as heavy as stones in his heart. With each passing day, the stones grew heavier and heavier, until there was no room left for the things the pig used to love. There was no room for his beloved plays. There was no room for songs or poetry or reading important works of literature by the light of the firefly. There was no room to perform for the wild baby mice who came whispering around his cage late at night. There was no room for strolls through the shop or nightly exercise or the slightest bit of joy. The stones kept Milly silent and hidden beneath the safety of his cedar shavings until he was practically invisible. Even the other guineas and the horrible Pepper Brown seemed to forget he was there.
Soon, days blurred into weeks and weeks blurred into months, and the exuberant glory of fall gave way to the barren quiet of winter. A blanket of snow covered the ground.
Millhouse woke up one morning to the sound of the gerbils stirring in their cage, the dull metal spokes of their exercise wheel slowly squeaking to life. The white mice rustled and yawned. The other guineas snuffed in their cages. Elliot appeared from beneath his mound of papers, his small eyes blinking against the light. The Pepper Brown remained in a tight ball next to his silver dish. The mole began his calculations. The White Collar was characteristically silent. In short, everything was just the same as the day before, and the day before that, and so on. Or so Milly thought.
The back door to the shop opened and closed with a whoosh. The Weekend Boy could be heard puffing against the cold and stamping the snow from his boots. After a minute or so, he appeared in the doorway, rosy-cheeked, a large box in his arms. He placed the box on top of the counter and opened the lid. As if by magic, he conjured long garlands of plastic holly leaves and tangled strands of colorful lights, with silver threads of tinsel sparkling here and there along the wire.
When the box was empty, the Weekend Boy returned to the back room and reappeared a moment later, struggling with an old wooden stepladder. Popping the ladder open in front of the pet shop window, he proceeded to drape and tack the greenery and lights around the frame. He balanced on his toes, teetering on the ladder to secure the last bit of garland around the window.
Milly knew that all this decorating and preparing could mean only one thing—it was Christmas Eve. He sighed, fluffing his cedar shavings with his paws. “Is it that time already?”
The pig thought about Christmas. He thought about presents and children and the hope of a home. He thought about the theater and The Nutcracker ballet, with dancers as light as thistledown. He thought of all the things that normally brightened his spirits. But these thoughts didn’t make him happy. No, he just lay there, as flat as a stale tortilla beneath the cheerful blinking of the red, green and blue Christmas lights.
Before long, the shop bells jingled against the cold and a large, red-faced woman bustled in. She brushed the snow from her long brown coat and straightened her matching wool beret on top of her very round head. The hat made her look like an acorn, Milly thought. The woman glanced around the shop.
“Can I help you?” the Weekend Boy asked.
“I’m in a hurry,” the woman said. “I need to buy a gift.”
“Do you have something in mind?”
“Something wonderful,” the woman replied. “Something for an aspiring thespian.”
“An aspiring thespian?” Milly sat up.
“I don’t want any of the usual things,” the woman instructed. “I want something … unusual.”
Milly felt a glimmer of hope—the first he’d experienced since the arrival of the White Collar. Was this the opportunity he’d been waiting for? But he was a mess! He hadn’t combed his beard in weeks! Running his paws through his whiskers, he quickly cleaned himself and raced to the front of his cage, striking one of his finest poses.
But the Weekend Boy looked confused by the woman’s request. “I’m not sure we have anything for an aspiring actor,” he said.
“Oh, but you do!” Milly shouted, frantically waving his arms to get the Weekend Boy’s attention. “I’m just the thing!” he said, and then he burst into song to prove it.
“Here we go again!” the Abby groaned, covering his ears.
“It waas own-lee a mahter of time,” the Honey Cream sneered.
The Pepper Brown sprang to life and let out a long, bitter hiss.
The White Collar gave a withering snort from his high-rise.
Milly broke into a dance number, but the Weekend Boy still didn’t notice him.
The woman grew impatient. “Just show me something—anything. I haven’t got time to go rushing from store to store. I’m already late.”
The Weekend Boy crossed the room and drew a chameleon from the terrarium. He held it up for the woman to see. The lizard froze. The woman scrunched up her nose and shook her head. The Weekend Boy returned the chameleon to the terrarium—next to a half dozen other chameleons who looked exactly the same—and closed the lid with a bang. He tapped his chin. And then his eyes lit up with inspiration.
“I have just the thing for you,” he said to the woman. “It’s a guinea—not your ordinary guinea, mind you. It’s unique—one of a kind. Your actor friend will love it.”
Milly practically jumped from his skin when he heard this. “Oh, thank the Bard!” he cheered. “The Weekend Boy’s finally come to his senses.” The pig closed his eyes and lifted his small fist in the air to heighten the drama of his profile. He ignored the insults from the other guineas and the mocking jeers from the Pepper Brown. After all, what did any of them know about acting?
“Why, that’s perfect!” the woman gushed.
Milly beamed from within his cage. He opened his eyes, preparing to acknowledge the woman’s kind words, only to find the Weekend Boy displaying th
e luxurious Peruvian guinea. “Oh, no!” Milly cried, his fist dropping to his side.
“May I hold it?” the woman asked, reaching out her hands.
The Peruvian cocked her head, attempting to see. “What’s going on?” she squeaked through her mop of silky gray hair.
“Subtraction!” the mole declared.
“Someone wahnts to buy you as a Christ-mahhs giffft!” the Honey Cream drawled.
“For a great actor who will take you around the world,” Milly said, his voice cracking with disappointment.
“For a bunch of loonies in tights who will maul you and drop you and tangle up your hair!” the Abyssinian growled.
“Oh, no!” the Peruvian squealed. “What shall I do?”
“Bite for your life!” the Abby yelled.
“Give her your best smile,” Milly said.
“J-j-jump in the air!” the gerbils stuttered.
“Mind your p’s ahhnd q’s!” the Honey Cream instructed.
“Pee in her hand!” the Abby shouted.
The poor Peruvian was so thoroughly overwhelmed with all this good advice that she could do nothing but shake and squeal, screaming that she “couldn’t see a thing.” This didn’t seem to deter the woman, who stroked and cuddled the frightened guinea, smoothing her hair. She carried her over to the counter, where the Weekend Boy produced a small box and placed the Peruvian inside. The woman added a cage with a dish and a water bottle, then a container of guinea chow.
The Weekend Boy wrapped the parcel neatly, tying everything with a bright red ribbon. He balanced the Peruvian in her box on top of the beribboned package, instructing the woman as to her care. The woman paid and bustled out the door as quickly as she had arrived.
“Good-bye!” all the animals called as the Peruvian squealed in terror from her box. “Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!”
“She’s a goner!” the Abby declared the second the shop door had closed.
“Tsk, tsk,” the Honey Cream clucked. “ ’Tis the sea-son. We haaave no i-dee-aah who will be next.”
“I just don’t understand,” Milly sniffed to himself. “The Peruvian has never even been to the theater. Why would the woman choose her over me? It doesn’t make sense.” He slumped onto his cedar shavings, his guinea heart breaking in two.
The bells on the shop door rang busily all day. People came and went. Animals were held and inspected. Many were taken home. The mole calculated furiously. With every new purchase, the stones in Milly’s heart grew heavier and heavier. No one would ever buy him and give him a home. No one would ever love him again.
At the end of the day, the mole tallied the sales: three chameleons, twenty-four goldfish, seven white mice, six gerbils and, of course, the silky-haired Peruvian. The Pepper Brown had a near miss, as did the Abyssinian, who insisted that he did not want to be sold.
The animals were exhausted, the strain of the Christmas Eve rush sending them early to bed. Elliot was already deep in slumber, whistling beneath his mound of papers. Milly, however, was hopelessly awake. Languishing on his cedar shavings, he listened to the sounds of the shop slowing to its evening pace, the aquarium gurgling and bubbling the other animals to sleep. He gazed sadly about the room as the Weekend Boy swept the floor and tidied the shelves. “Alas, the day is gone and I am still here,” the pig said, sniffing.
Milly gripped the bars of his cage, his heart bursting with longing until he thought he would die. “I shall endure this no more!” he suddenly declared as the Weekend Boy placed the broom in the corner and extinguished the shop lights with a snap.
Now, when someone says, “I shall endure this no more!” it usually means he is about to do something drastic. No one can tell what pushes someone to this point. It’s different for everyone. Maybe his parents make him eat suspicious things, like brussels sprouts and peas. Maybe his favorite galoshes spring a leak. Or maybe he’s grown tired of a little sister or brother who follows him around the house making noises like a dim-witted parrot. Who knows.
For Millhouse, being overlooked by the cheerful Christmas shoppers was the last straw. He wouldn’t wait any longer for someone to buy him and take him home. He wouldn’t spend his nights dreaming of being discovered by a celebrated actor. He was going to run away.
8
Runaway Pig
When he was sure he was alone, Millhouse slipped from his cage and climbed down the column of pet food boxes. Crossing the floor, he disappeared into his shoebox prop room, quiet as a mouse. “I will strike out and find happiness,” he vowed, spreading his chamois cloth on the floor. He began placing all his props on the cloth, stacking them neatly in the center.
When his things were safely bundled, Milly unrolled the small red sock, which had been discarded by an angry child months before, and pulled it on like a cap. “At least my head will be warm,” he thought as he lifted the chamois onto his back.
The guinea took one last look around the prop room, his heart aching. “And so farewell,” he said to the empty walls, bowing deeply.
As he did this, a light winked and faded in the corner of the box.
“Are you still here, my friend?” Milly asked, astonished to see the firefly.
The fly’s light grew brighter.
“I would take you with me,” Milly said, “but the cold outside world is no place for such a frail creature as you. It is far past your season—and perhaps mine as well.”
The firefly blinked and faded into the dark. Milly struggled from the prop room, the chamois bundle catching in the doorway and sending the guinea staggering into the middle of the shop like someone who’s had too much Christmas eggnog. When he finally regained his balance, Milly gazed at all the sleeping animals, the red sock hanging limply to one side of his face. He was suddenly saddened by the idea of leaving. “Oh, endless misery,” he choked, wiping tears from his eyes. “I am loath to leave, even as I am loath to stay. But I must go,” he said, gathering his strength.
He checked to ensure the coast was clear, then crept across the room, looking for an escape route. The Weekend Boy had left a chair near the door. “I shall exit through the mail slot,” the guinea said to himself. “I can reach it from the top of that chair.”
Millhouse struggled up the rungs of the chair, the sack held firmly in one paw. Swinging a leg over the edge of the seat, he pulled himself up, hoisting the sack after him. He reached for the metal mail flap on the door. It was cold in his paw. He lifted it gingerly, careful not to disturb the other animals, and peered through the slot. Snowflakes swirled all around. The other shops were decorated with Christmas lights, their merry colors somehow lonely against the dark. Beneath the glow of a streetlamp, a winter-frosted city rat scuttled toward the shadows. Papers blew and whirled with the snow. A traffic light blinked patiently through its changes to the empty street below.
Millhouse turned to look at the shop for the final time. “Good-bye and farewell,” he whispered, then he slipped through the mail slot into the night.
But when he went to pull the bag through, it would not fit.
“Sweet Shakespeare!” he cussed, his dramatic exit ruined by the stubborn bundle. He tugged and pulled on the sack, to no avail. He straddled the mail slot—the snow blowing around him—and yanked with all his guinea pig might. But the bag would not squeeze through. “You will yield!” Milly yelled in frustration.
When the bundle would not comply, the pig wiggled back through the slot and jumped down onto the chair, attempting to push the sack through from inside. He shoved with his shoulders and paws. He pushed with his back and his feet. He puffed and groaned and cursed, his face flushed, the red sock hanging over one eye, his bristly white beard sticking out from his chin. He was about to give in when all of a sudden he heard a sound.
“Santa?”
The pig jumped with fright. The bundle exploded and all Milly’s props flew into the air, bouncing in every direction on the ground.
“It’s Santa Claus!” cheered a brand-new litter of baby wild mice, rushing
toward Milly’s things.
“Santa brought me a pretty pink shoe!” one of the mice said, slipping his foot into the Barbie shoe and clomping merrily around the room.
“I got a picture of a beautiful lady!” another cooed, waving the five-cent stamp in the air.
Two others grappled with the crayons, writing their names on the floor.
“Oh dear, no!” Millhouse said. “Those are not Christmas gifts.”
But the baby mice didn’t seem to hear. They scurried up the rungs of the chair with their “gifts” and swarmed around Milly’s feet.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” they chimed.
“For the love of Shakespeare,” the pig groaned. “I shall never make my escape now, and I’ve lost all my props!”
The baby mice giggled and pressed closer to the bewildered guinea, hugging him around the legs and stroking his bristly white beard. “We love you, Santa,” they said.
Millhouse tried to pull himself away from the babies, but they just cuddled closer. “Well, I suppose I do look a bit like the old elf,” the pig sighed, allowing the baby mice to hang off him until he grew impatient and tired.
“Now, now,” he finally said. “It’s time to take your gifts and go to bed.”
But to Milly’s horror, the babies began to howl and bawl, throwing themselves down, and kicking and convulsing violently.
“NO, NO, NO! We won’t go to bed!” they screamed. “We won’t go!”
Milly looked around the room in fear, terrified the baby mice would wake the other animals. He shushed and hushed, but the little mice howled even louder.