Friendly Foal

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  She kept talking. “Do you know what will happen if we fail to fill out all of these expiring contest entries? What will not happen, I should say. We may miss winning a brand-new, precision-made tricycle! Or a year’s supply of dog food. Or a two-year supply of Crispy Rice Flakes!”

  I knew nobody in the house rode a tricycle. A couple dozen cats were creeping from every room, but no dogs. And I didn’t know where they’d put one more box of cereal. Their cupboards were full of cereal boxes, each one with a rectangle cut out from the back for last month’s cereal contest.

  “Where do we start?” I asked.

  Chair legs scraped the floor. Then the head and shoulders of Mrs. Claire Coolidge popped up over the paper pile. Her head was covered with giant juice cans that had been transformed into hair curlers. She wore a fuzzy green bathrobe that matched the green netting over her juice-can curlers.

  “Is that Winnie?” She brushed aside enough entry forms to see better. “It’s really you!” She got up and charged around the table toward me. “Winnie, Winnie, Winnie!”

  Maybe one of the reasons I like coming to Coolidge Castle so much is that Catman’s mother always acts like she hasn’t seen me for years and is really thrilled I came over.

  She hugged me hard. Then she reached up and whisked off my stocking cap. “There! Let’s have a look at that gorgeous hair!”

  Claire Coolidge is the only one, to my knowledge, who thinks I have gorgeous hair. Gorgeous hair is Lizzy’s department. Mine is wild as a Mustang and ornery as a Shetland.

  “For a minute, I thought you’d cut this lovely hair.” She tried to run her fingers through it but didn’t get far. Too many tangles.

  It was funny because I had been thinking about chopping off my hair.

  As if she were reading my mind she said, “Winifred Willis, if you ever cut your hair, I will sell my salon and follow you around, scolding, until every inch of hair grows back.”

  Note to self: Don’t cut your hair.

  I glanced down at her fuzzy green slippers, topped on each toe by a stuffed Tweety Bird head. No doubt a gift from her husband.

  “Sa-a-ay! How are you, young Winnie?” Bart Coolidge gave me his best firm, used-car-salesman handshake. Even though it was only six in the morning, he was wearing a gray-striped suit, with his Tweety Bird necktie loosened around the neck of his canary-yellow shirt.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Coolidge. I’m the one who made Catman late. But I’m going to help him make up for lost time.”

  “That’s fine then!” he boomed. “Sa-a-ay!”

  I felt a joke coming on. Even though Mr. Coolidge is a natural used-car salesman, he must have dreamed of being a comedian. He has more jokes than a Pinto has spots.

  “Knock-knock!”

  I was already starting to laugh. His jokes are so corny that I can’t help it. “Who’s there?” I knew my part by now.

  “Wire!” he shouted.

  “Wire who?”

  “Why’re you here and not out at Smart Bart’s Used Cars taking advantage of our great, end-of-year bargains?”

  We both laughed until our eyes watered.

  Mrs. Coolidge brought out tomatoes, the Coolidge family’s favorite snack. We each took one and started in on it.

  Catman and I dug into the pile of entry blanks. Mrs. Coolidge insisted that I put in my own name, and whatever I won, I got to keep.

  I filled out contest forms to win a toaster oven, a case of Spaghetti Ws, a month’s supply of Alphabet Rice, the world’s largest garden hose, a year’s worth of free movies for cable TV, which we don’t have. But Catman handed me one entry I would have loved to win. A week at a dude ranch in Colorado. The fine print said the odds were 1,300,000 to 1.

  “Maybe you’ll follow in your father’s lucky footsteps,” Mrs. Coolidge said, passing her husband another stack of envelopes. “Didn’t he win an invention contest?”

  “With the back bike,” I said.

  “I have to get one of those bikes!” Mrs. Coolidge declared.

  “You know,” I said, reading the entries more closely, “these just have to be postmarked by January 1. We don’t really have to finish them today.” I was starting to worry about the time. I knew I hadn’t put in my fair share yet, but I was anxious to get to the help line.

  “But we’re leaving at noon!” Mr. Coolidge announced.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Didn’t Calvin tell you?” Mrs. Coolidge frowned at her son, who kept filling out entries at record speed.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell your little friend about our prize!” Mrs. Coolidge scolded.

  “What did you win?” I asked.

  Mrs. Coolidge smiled so wide that I saw silver fillings on her back teeth. “Bart and I won an all-expenses-paid vacation to 15 international cities!”

  “Wow! That’s so great! What a trip!” I couldn’t even imagine visiting one foreign city. I turned to Catman. “Catman, do you get to go?” I thought that for a trip like that, the principal wouldn’t even count him absent.

  Catman shook his head. “Barkers’.”

  Mrs. Coolidge explained. “I’m afraid we only won two vacations. Calvin will stay with Eddy Barker.”

  “It’s a romantic, all-expenses-paid vacation, don’t forget!” Mr. Coolidge chimed in. He leaned over and kissed his wife on top of her head, but it ended up being a kiss on a big green curler.

  “So where are you going?” I asked, thinking I’d choose somewhere in Italy or Spain.

  Mrs. Coolidge counted on her fingers as she spoke. I noticed that she wore eight rings, skipping only the pinkie and thumb of her left hand.

  “1. Paris

  2. Vienna

  3. Warsaw

  4. Nineveh

  5. Bethlehem

  6. Calcutta

  7. Berlin

  8. Athens

  9. Antwerp

  10. Belfast

  11. El Dorado

  12. London

  13. Dresden

  14. Moscow

  15. Utopia”

  “I-I can’t believe you get to go to all those cities!” I didn’t know where Utopia was, but I recognized most of the others. “Are they all safe?” I’d heard about fighting in Belfast. And Moscow had always sounded kind of scary to me.

  “Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Coolidge assured me. “I plan to visit beauty shops in every city too. As we all know, there is no safer place on earth than a beauty salon.”

  I, for one, hadn’t known that. But Mrs. Coolidge runs a hair salon, so she ought to know.

  “Hard job narrowing down possible cities,” said Mr. Coolidge, licking an envelope. “I really wanted to see Lebanon, Vera Cruz, Sodom, and Poznan. But I gave in gladly to the lovely Mrs. Coolidge.”

  “That’s not exactly how I remember it, Mr. Coolidge,” his wife countered. “As I recall, I really wanted to visit Palermo, Jerusalem, Amsterdam, Congo, Canaan, and Cuba. And I was the one who gave in to the charming Mr. Coolidge.”

  Mr. Coolidge got up from his chair so fast that it tipped over. He ran to his wife and threw his arms around her. “My darling!” He swung her to the side, like ballroom dancers dipping, and kissed her. “Let’s never fight again.”

  “No, never!” she answered.

  That was a fight?

  Note to self: Get Dad and Madeline in the same room as Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge, then bring up the golf buddy.

  This was definitely not a fight.

  “So how long will you be gone?” I asked when they were both upright again.

  “Four days,” Mrs. Coolidge said.

  “Four days? You mean four weeks?” I couldn’t see how they’d squeeze all those cities into four weeks. But I didn’t think they’d leave Catman for four months.

  “Four days,” Mr. Coolidge said, picking up his toppled chair. “We don’t stay in all the cities. Some we dine in. Others we drive through.”

  “And only check out their beauty salons,” Mrs. Coolidge added.

  “And their us
ed-car lots,” Mr. Coolidge continued.

  I wasn’t getting this at all. “But how can you? Four days? You’ll barely get to the first city and have to fly to another, then another. . . .”

  Mr. Coolidge frowned at me as if I’d said a dirty word. “Fly? Our stops aren’t that far apart, Winnie.”

  I’d heard people say Americans think European countries are all bunched together like the state of Iowa, but we’re wrong. They are far apart once you try to travel from one to the other.

  “Besides,” bellowed Mr. Coolidge, “would Smart Bart be seen in an airplane?” The way he pronounced it, it sounded like arrowplane.

  Now I really wasn’t getting it. They had to fly to Europe. I looked to Catman for help.

  Even though his mouth was a straight line, his blue eyes were laughing at me. “European cities . . . in Ohio.”

  “Your parents won a trip to Ohio? Their own state?”

  “We’ve agreed to only speak the appropriate language in each bed-and-breakfast,” Mrs. Coolidge went on. “We won’t be talking much through Moscow and Warsaw.”

  “Who needs words, my little Cadillac?” Mr. Coolidge cooed.

  When the grandfather clock struck nine, I started worrying about the help line and getting done in time to get back for Sal and Amigo.

  Catman must have read my mind. “Gotta split.”

  His parents thanked us for helping. I told them to have a great vacation, but I already knew they would.

  The light was on and the dogs were up and barking when we walked into Pat’s Pets.

  Pat Haven, the owner, is kind of a permanent sub for my seventh-grade life science class. She’s a good teacher and a great friend.

  “Hey, Winnie. Catman,” Pat said, coming over to us. “How’s that filly doing?”

  “She’s okay. Doesn’t like me much, though. I’m trying to imprint her, but it’s tough.”

  Pat shook her head like this was terrible news. Usually she’s one of the bounciest people I know. But today even her brown curls weren’t springy. Dressed in a yoked shirt and blue jeans, she looked like a cowgirl who’d just lost the rodeo.

  “You okay, Pat?” I asked.

  “That twit’s got me wound tighter than a rattlesnake. No offense.” Pat always apologizes to the animals she uses in her expressions. This apology was aimed in the general direction of the boa constrictor. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that little twit.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Pat Haven had just called someone a twit. Twice! It wasn’t like her. Even at middle school, which is populated by a high percentage of twits, I’ve never heard her say anything bad about anybody.

  “Who, Pat?” I asked.

  “Dollface,” she answered.

  I should have known. “You mean that big goldfish?”

  Pat nodded.

  “Why is she a twit?” I asked, wondering how much trouble a goldfish could be.

  “She’s pregnant!” Pat laughed. “That’s what a twit is—a pregnant goldfish.” She stopped laughing as suddenly as if somebody had shut her off. “She’s not looking so good, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t know much about fish, Pat,” I confessed.

  “Cats eat them,” Catman said, shrugging.

  “Hey, guys! Almost done!” Barker shouted from the other side of the store, where Pat has a computer just for the Pet Help Line.

  Catman and I made our way past the iguana cage over to Barker. Zorro was sitting on Barker’s lap, not even trying to scramble off. His imprinting must have been going a whole lot better than Friendly’s.

  “I only had one message today,” Barker said, tucking Zorro like a football under one arm before he got up. Barker motioned for one of us to take the computer. “Three e-mails for you, Catman. Winnie, you’ve got a dozen.”

  I let Catman go first so he could get home before his parents left on their tour. And, anyway, I love seeing what Catman writes.

  Before he checked his own e-mail, Catman hit keys so fast I couldn’t tell what he’d done. But there was Barker’s question-and-answer on the screen. I guess Catman liked reading Barker’s e-mails as much as I enjoyed Catman’s. I wondered if anybody enjoyed mine.

  I moved around so I could read too:

  Dear Barker,

  Help! I’m worried about Albert, my dog. He’s only 9 months old, and I think he’s got leprosy! Small black spots popped out on his lower lips and face. And his chin has crusty, yucky spots. What should I do?

  —Albert the First

  Dear Albert,

  Don’t worry. Those black spots . . . they’re zits! You heard me. Dog pimples. Lots of puppies get them. Dogs too.

  Wash Albert’s face twice a day. Keep his food dish clean. Stay away from plastic bowls because they hold the oil and get it on your puppy’s chin. Stick with aluminum or glass or pottery or even china.

  —Barker

  Catman switched to his e-mails and got right to it, typing at Quarter Horse speed, using only his thumbs and pinkies.

  Dear Catman,

  I think our family cat hates me. The minute I get close to her, she rolls on her back and sticks her claws up in the air. It’s probably my fault. When I was a little kid, I was scared of cats. I’m not now, but maybe our cat remembers and won’t give me another chance.

  —Catman Wanna-be

  Hey, Cat!

  Never fear! That ol’ cat digs you, man! Cats don’t roll over for any ol’ jive turkey! Belly up means, “I trust you totally, Daddy-O!” And don’t sweat the past cat fear. That little fighting dude named Napoleon had a bad case of ailurophobia (fear of cats) too. Only he never got rid of it.

  Be cool, Cat!

  —The Catman

  Dear Catman,

  I am an old man who loves his cats. All three of my cats have been getting sick off and on all winter. The vet says they’re fine. But whenever the cats go outside, they come back in and groan with stomachaches an hour later. Then they’re fine again. I keep my walks shoveled and salted just so the cats won’t have to walk in the cold snow. Any ideas for me?

  —Old-Timer

  Dear Old-Timer,

  Might be the salt on your walks, man! That stuff gets soaked in through cats’ paws. Plus cats lick it off their little doggies (paws). Lose the salt. Sounds like you four cats are a groovy foursome!

  —The Catman

  When it was my turn, I scrolled through e-mails and pulled out the easy ones. Seven of the questions had to do with problem horses who had been cooped up in stalls all winter. They cribbed or chewed on their stalls. They pawed and spooked at everything.

  The horses needed to get outside more. Anybody would go crazy from boredom just standing in a box stall night and day. I told them to turn out their horses as often as they could. And I suggested ways they could make the stall more fun with hay nets and toys.

  It was the first time I’d ever cut and pasted answers on the help line, copying the same answer for all seven e-mails. I felt bad and promised myself I’d never do it again. But I only had an hour, so I had to.

  I worked my way through the rest of the e-mails. One horse resented the new horse in the barn. One owner needed advice on cleaning out the frog, the V-shaped underneath part of the hoof. One girl needed me to tell her that her horse’s natural winter coat would have been a better protector than the stall blanket she’d left on all winter.

  The longest answer went to Confused in Colorado:

  Dear Winnie the Horse Gentler,

  Molly is the best Morgan in the whole world. Every day for the four months I’ve owned her, I brushed her from head to hoof. I thought she loved it. But a week ago she started acting weird. Whenever I’d get to her hindquarters, she’d lift her back leg, like she was going to kick me! It’s SO not like her! But now she does it every time I get near her rump or try to walk around her. Help!

  —Confused in Colorado

  Dear Confused,

  You’re smart to pay attention to your horse when she lifts her hind leg like that.
With lots of horses, it’s their way of warning you they’ll kick. But I don’t think that’s what Molly’s saying to you. You said she loves the brushing, right? Well, I think she’s saying, “All right! Here she comes. She’s going to scratch and massage my leg again. I can hardly wait!”

  The hindquarters are hard for a horse to reach, especially in a stall. She’s ready for you to help her out. Good broodmares lift that hind leg when their foals get near. They’re ready to nurse their babies.

  Be careful until you’re sure this is what Molly’s saying to you. It’s possible she has a sore area or is ticklish. But I’ll bet if you go ahead and brush her (staying to her side, just in case), she’ll sigh a big thank you.

  —Winnie the Horse Gentler

  Pat ambled over just as I finished the last e-mail. All of my answers had been shorter than I would have liked. But I’d finished in time to get back to the barn and groom Amigo before Sal got there.

  “Everything hunky-dory?” Pat asked.

  “All done,” I answered. “Except there are two bird questions I couldn’t answer. Want me to leave them until Hawk gets back?”

  “Hot dog! No offense.” She waved at the collie pup in the nearest cage. “Hawk! Why didn’t I think of her before? That girl knows a lot about fish! She might be able to help me with the twit.”

  Hawk knows everything about birds, but Pat was right. Hawk knows her fish too.

  “Do you know how to reach her? Florida, right?” Pat queried.

  “I’ve got her number at home. I guess I could—”

  “Terrific! Call home. Then we’ll give that little lady a call.” Pat looked more like herself again.

  I wanted to go home and start in on Amigo, but I couldn’t make Pat wait any longer. I picked up the phone.

  “I hear tell you’re housing a Mini for a spell,” Pat said as I dialed my number.

  “Yeah. He’s beautiful. But he doesn’t trust me yet,” I admitted.

  The phone rang once.

  “Well, I suppose it’s not that all-fired important, what with him leaving so soon and all.”

  My insides went cold. “What do you mean, Pat?”

  “I ran in to Mrs. Cracker last night. Over at A-Mart. Checkout line. I know, I know. I wasn’t going to shop at the Spidell empire, but I needed those little bitty carrots already chopped and in the bag for—”