Last week at dinner, I was telling my parents how Tim had been chased by a pig out in Arizona. Without missing a beat, my mother enquired (and she was completely serious), "Why was a cop chasing Tim?"
After we picked Rose up from the floor where she was rolling around laughing, and I stopped choking on my salad, we asked my mother why she thought I meant a cop. Her brother was a cop, and nobody in our family has ever called a police officer a pig (maybe not so much because of my uncle, but more because we are not extras on an episode of Dragnet).
"Well," she offered, "I didn't think you actually meant a real pig!"
In her defense, she comes by it honestly. Her mother was forever coming up with some doozies. The Pocono mountains were the Pinocchio mountains and her nephew was training at Pepsi-cola in Florida.
And her mother before her, as family legend has it, once told a waiter that she didn't want the sorbet, or intermezzo course, he was trying to serve her before her entree. Except that she yelled it to him across a crowded restaurant and she didn't exactly say intermezzo course...she called it intercourse.
Fortunately, Tim cannot say much about my family's propensity to misuse words, since it runs in his family too.
For many years, my mother was the director of a choral group called The Interludes. They were a fun, and let's say, um, colorful group of people that Tim decided should more aptly be named The Quaaludes. Sadly, he neglected to tell his mother that was not their actual name, and one day she innocently asked my mom how her "Quaaludes" were. Even more sadly for Tim, he was within striking distance of both moms at the time.
Not to be outdone, his brother Tom had the misfortune to refer to something as "friggin" in their mother's presence. When she rebuked him for his foul language, he adopted his best wide-eyed, innocent look and explained that, contrary to being a bad word, it came from the Latin meaning "to hit".
Congratulating himself on his narrow escape from a lecture, he went on his merry way only to be confronted by his mom about a month later.
Seems she had let the word fly at work to refer to a jammed copier that needed "hitting". Her boss, shocked, asked her if she knew what the word meant, and then had to delicately explain to her that it was slang for another word that began with the letter F.
This probably wouldn't have been too bad if not for the fact that she worked in a church rectory and her boss was a priest.
And the cycle continues...Just a few weeks ago, Rose and I were on the phone one morning and she asked what Tim and I were doing. Kidding around, I told her that we had just had "breckie".
"What?!!?" she shrieked, "Too much information!"
"Well, you asked," I replied, perplexed as to why she found my shorthand for breakfast so offensive.
"Yes, but I did not need to know that." I could all but hear her shudder.
Turns out, she actually thought I had told her we had had a "quickie".
You can't escape your genes.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
It Had Better Be Broken
Friday afternoon we drove to Pennsylvania to spend the weekend with my family. My dad limped to the door on an ankle that looked like he was smuggling a grapefruit under the skin, explaining that he had fallen down the attic stairs a few hours earlier. It took some doing, but we convinced him to go to the emergency room to have it checked out. Our mistake.
Upon arrival, we were told that there would be a two hour wait to see the doctor. Oh goody. Two hours in a waiting room filled with people who were hacking, sneezing, wheezing, whining, moaning and complaining. I wish we were that lucky.
Finding four seats together, we all sat down, and Tim, my mother and I all pulled out our ipods, intending to turn on, tune in and drop out. My father found a three day old newspaper and checked out the obits, looking to see how many of them had expired in the waiting room of the ER.
My sister, who was at a local fair, began texting me, so I turned over my ipod to my father, thinking a few games of Parking Lot would take his mind off his ankle, which he was still insisting was not broken. Being the anally logical person he is, I figured a game that consisted of moving cars around to free the one yellow car in the back would be right up his alley. Not even close.
"Why can't you move the cars sideways?" he grumbled, repeatedly trying to slide a limo across the screen.
Um, cause Henry Ford foolishly put wheels on cars that only had the ability to go forward and backward?
"This one is impossible," he growled, somewhere around move 287, still trying to push the offending cars sideways. Then, "I don't even know why we're here. It's only a sprain."
I knew we would never hear the end of it if it wasn't really broken.
On the other side of me was my mother, who was watching an old Judy Garland movie on her itouch, and periodically making comments like, "Boy, this place is crowded" and "Honestly, those people over there are soooo noisy", at the top of her lungs. I had to keep explaining that she was the one with the earbuds, and the rest of us could hear her just fine if she spoke in her normal "indoor voice". It really wasn't necessary to compete with the ambulance siren to see who could be louder.
Then there were the two girls across the room who had obviously mistaken this for the waiting room at the American Idol tryouts, and were serenading everyone with renditions of currents hits that made William Hueng sound like Placido Domingo. Even Paula would have been telling them to give it up.
Into this mix, about every fifteen minutes or so, a nurse would come into the waiting room with a clipboard and call out a name to which no one would respond. A beat. Call the name again. Another beat. Try once more. Finally, someone would say, "I think they already took that person back." A shrug. Last look around, as though the person they were paging might be playing hard to get and hiding under a sofa cushion, then they would amble off until it was time to come back in and call the next name to which nobody would respond. Way to stay on top of things, guys. Hey, if you can't find the elderly man with chest pain, you might want to check the maternity wing.
An hour or so into the fun and games, a nurse came in and gave my father a bright pink badge to wear, explaining that it was so that they could "track" his location. Yeah. Is that the same system you've been using to keep track of all the other patients? Because if it is, I gotta tell you it isn't working so well. Ever think of switching to Lojac?
Finally though, someone came out and called my father's name. Still grumbling and insisting that he didn't need to be at the hospital for a sprained ankle, he disappeared into the mysterious "back room".
Shortly thereafter, my sister arrived (she didn't want us to have all the fun) and managed to get into the back with my mom to see what was going on. At this point, we were all pretty much in agreement that if the ankle wasn't really broken, we would be subjected to such excruciatingly painful hours of , "I told you so", that it would make the last few look like a walk in the park. Hospitals and my dad do not make a good combo.
While I waited for them to come out, Tim continued his own personal ritual of the last two hours. He trekked back and forth between the emergency entrance where he could use his cell phone, the vending machines where he could buy me chocolate cupcakes and cookies and himself soda, and the bathroom where he could recycle the soda, using the chair next to me as a pit stop to get updated on the ankle.
It so happened that one of his brief visits coincided with Pat and my mother coming out with the news that the ankle was indeed broken, but that it was a clean break, easily set and easily mended. Learning that we would be spared endless haranguing by my father for taking him to the ER for nothing, we whopped and high-fived each other... much to the shock of the other people in the room. Apparently, it is not a normal reaction for people to be overjoyed when they learn a loved one has broken an appendage. Go figure.
Three hours after leaving, we pulled back into the driveway at the house with one broken ankle, one drained ipod battery, one drained cellphone battery and one newly-filled prescription for Vicodin which we were all eyeing with longing.
Upon arrival, we were told that there would be a two hour wait to see the doctor. Oh goody. Two hours in a waiting room filled with people who were hacking, sneezing, wheezing, whining, moaning and complaining. I wish we were that lucky.
Finding four seats together, we all sat down, and Tim, my mother and I all pulled out our ipods, intending to turn on, tune in and drop out. My father found a three day old newspaper and checked out the obits, looking to see how many of them had expired in the waiting room of the ER.
My sister, who was at a local fair, began texting me, so I turned over my ipod to my father, thinking a few games of Parking Lot would take his mind off his ankle, which he was still insisting was not broken. Being the anally logical person he is, I figured a game that consisted of moving cars around to free the one yellow car in the back would be right up his alley. Not even close.
"Why can't you move the cars sideways?" he grumbled, repeatedly trying to slide a limo across the screen.
Um, cause Henry Ford foolishly put wheels on cars that only had the ability to go forward and backward?
"This one is impossible," he growled, somewhere around move 287, still trying to push the offending cars sideways. Then, "I don't even know why we're here. It's only a sprain."
I knew we would never hear the end of it if it wasn't really broken.
On the other side of me was my mother, who was watching an old Judy Garland movie on her itouch, and periodically making comments like, "Boy, this place is crowded" and "Honestly, those people over there are soooo noisy", at the top of her lungs. I had to keep explaining that she was the one with the earbuds, and the rest of us could hear her just fine if she spoke in her normal "indoor voice". It really wasn't necessary to compete with the ambulance siren to see who could be louder.
Then there were the two girls across the room who had obviously mistaken this for the waiting room at the American Idol tryouts, and were serenading everyone with renditions of currents hits that made William Hueng sound like Placido Domingo. Even Paula would have been telling them to give it up.
Into this mix, about every fifteen minutes or so, a nurse would come into the waiting room with a clipboard and call out a name to which no one would respond. A beat. Call the name again. Another beat. Try once more. Finally, someone would say, "I think they already took that person back." A shrug. Last look around, as though the person they were paging might be playing hard to get and hiding under a sofa cushion, then they would amble off until it was time to come back in and call the next name to which nobody would respond. Way to stay on top of things, guys. Hey, if you can't find the elderly man with chest pain, you might want to check the maternity wing.
An hour or so into the fun and games, a nurse came in and gave my father a bright pink badge to wear, explaining that it was so that they could "track" his location. Yeah. Is that the same system you've been using to keep track of all the other patients? Because if it is, I gotta tell you it isn't working so well. Ever think of switching to Lojac?
Finally though, someone came out and called my father's name. Still grumbling and insisting that he didn't need to be at the hospital for a sprained ankle, he disappeared into the mysterious "back room".
Shortly thereafter, my sister arrived (she didn't want us to have all the fun) and managed to get into the back with my mom to see what was going on. At this point, we were all pretty much in agreement that if the ankle wasn't really broken, we would be subjected to such excruciatingly painful hours of , "I told you so", that it would make the last few look like a walk in the park. Hospitals and my dad do not make a good combo.
While I waited for them to come out, Tim continued his own personal ritual of the last two hours. He trekked back and forth between the emergency entrance where he could use his cell phone, the vending machines where he could buy me chocolate cupcakes and cookies and himself soda, and the bathroom where he could recycle the soda, using the chair next to me as a pit stop to get updated on the ankle.
It so happened that one of his brief visits coincided with Pat and my mother coming out with the news that the ankle was indeed broken, but that it was a clean break, easily set and easily mended. Learning that we would be spared endless haranguing by my father for taking him to the ER for nothing, we whopped and high-fived each other... much to the shock of the other people in the room. Apparently, it is not a normal reaction for people to be overjoyed when they learn a loved one has broken an appendage. Go figure.
Three hours after leaving, we pulled back into the driveway at the house with one broken ankle, one drained ipod battery, one drained cellphone battery and one newly-filled prescription for Vicodin which we were all eyeing with longing.
Friday, May 8, 2009
If It's Not One Helpline, It's Another
Why do I even try? I should know better. Helplines do not help.
For some reason, I forgot this simple rule and called the AT&T helpline. I didn't want to. I really tried to avoid it. I went online first and tried to sign up for automatic bill pay (something else I should know by now doesn't work for me), but I needed some sort of temporary code to create an account, and so I had to call.
The first call, I was cut off in the middle of explaining my problem. Wow. A new low for even a helpline.
The second call went marginally better. They listened to my problem, told me I had the wrong number and sent me back to the automated system.
The third call is the one that wins the prize though. I explained what I needed and shockingly, they couldn't help, so I was transferred...to someone else who couldn't help, but they transferred me to a third person who was also unable to help. Hmmm, let's see, so far I have talked to five people from your helpline who have given me NO HELP!!!
Perhaps you might want to consider renaming your helpline something more accurate like the "customer aggravation" line, or the "we have no intention of ever helping anyone" line. Then, when you accidentally help someone, it will be a pleasant surprise.
The last person must have wisely believed that if he just transferred me again, I really would come down the phone line and make him sorry he showed up for work that day, because he put me on hold. Not exactly what I had in mind. Hold. Purgatory. Is there a difference?
Actually, there was a slight difference this time. Instead of being subjected to endless choruses of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" played by Zamfir on his pan flute, I was forced to listen to a recording encouraging me to register online to pay my bill. Hello...trying!!!
I'd love to know whose genius idea it was to taunt customers (me) with what you are not letting me do. Why don't you just go to the zoo, find a bear who is still hibernating and poke him with a sharp stick. I'll bet you get the same reaction.
Person number 5 did manage to come back before I completely lost what was left of my mind and hesitantly told me that he had located the person I needed to speak to...and it wasn't him. However, he did make a pitch to sell me further services before he let me go.
Seriously? Was he kidding me? Did he sleep through the part where I explained that I was NOT HAPPY?????? I mean, really, was I supposed to jump at the opportunity to have to call the helpline again for yet another service issue? I don't' know what this guy was on, but I think he was owed a refund.
I believe I was still in mid-cackle when he transferred me to the final "helper", who, by the way, had an attitude.
First question: Was I call AT&T or Bell South?
Huh?
Was I calling AT&T or Bell South?
Double huh? First, why would I be calling Bell South? Second, how and why would Bell South have transferred my call to AT&T? For giggles? Third, why would you even ask that question?
Ms. Attitude snottily informed me that they were the same company.
Okay, then if you are the same company, what difference does it make who I called?????
But she didn't want to let it go. She insisted on knowing what number I had dialed.
Well, the one written on my phone bill that said, "for customer service, call..." and , foolishly, I actually thought that was the number I should call. Silly me. I'll know better next time. Hey, if I ever need to call, say, Comcast again, maybe I should dial the Direct TV number. Why didn't I think of that sooner. Duh! That's what my problem was all along. I was actually dialing the number of the company I was dealing with!
Attitude? I could show her attitude.
Well, they would have to mail me the temporary pass code. They weren't allowed to give that out over the phone.
Okay.
Well, it would take seven to ten days to get it.
Okay.
And I would have to verify the address.
Look, if you don't want me to be able to pay my bill online, just come out and say so, but I was under the impression, after being forced to listen to your shameless plug for online registration, that you were actually encouraging people to do just that!
We parted ways slightly less than amicably, and I'm not holding out much hope of ever receiving that code.
That's okay though, because if I don't', I'll know next time to call Sprint or MCI and not the number on my bill.
For some reason, I forgot this simple rule and called the AT&T helpline. I didn't want to. I really tried to avoid it. I went online first and tried to sign up for automatic bill pay (something else I should know by now doesn't work for me), but I needed some sort of temporary code to create an account, and so I had to call.
The first call, I was cut off in the middle of explaining my problem. Wow. A new low for even a helpline.
The second call went marginally better. They listened to my problem, told me I had the wrong number and sent me back to the automated system.
The third call is the one that wins the prize though. I explained what I needed and shockingly, they couldn't help, so I was transferred...to someone else who couldn't help, but they transferred me to a third person who was also unable to help. Hmmm, let's see, so far I have talked to five people from your helpline who have given me NO HELP!!!
Perhaps you might want to consider renaming your helpline something more accurate like the "customer aggravation" line, or the "we have no intention of ever helping anyone" line. Then, when you accidentally help someone, it will be a pleasant surprise.
The last person must have wisely believed that if he just transferred me again, I really would come down the phone line and make him sorry he showed up for work that day, because he put me on hold. Not exactly what I had in mind. Hold. Purgatory. Is there a difference?
Actually, there was a slight difference this time. Instead of being subjected to endless choruses of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree" played by Zamfir on his pan flute, I was forced to listen to a recording encouraging me to register online to pay my bill. Hello...trying!!!
I'd love to know whose genius idea it was to taunt customers (me) with what you are not letting me do. Why don't you just go to the zoo, find a bear who is still hibernating and poke him with a sharp stick. I'll bet you get the same reaction.
Person number 5 did manage to come back before I completely lost what was left of my mind and hesitantly told me that he had located the person I needed to speak to...and it wasn't him. However, he did make a pitch to sell me further services before he let me go.
Seriously? Was he kidding me? Did he sleep through the part where I explained that I was NOT HAPPY?????? I mean, really, was I supposed to jump at the opportunity to have to call the helpline again for yet another service issue? I don't' know what this guy was on, but I think he was owed a refund.
I believe I was still in mid-cackle when he transferred me to the final "helper", who, by the way, had an attitude.
First question: Was I call AT&T or Bell South?
Huh?
Was I calling AT&T or Bell South?
Double huh? First, why would I be calling Bell South? Second, how and why would Bell South have transferred my call to AT&T? For giggles? Third, why would you even ask that question?
Ms. Attitude snottily informed me that they were the same company.
Okay, then if you are the same company, what difference does it make who I called?????
But she didn't want to let it go. She insisted on knowing what number I had dialed.
Well, the one written on my phone bill that said, "for customer service, call..." and , foolishly, I actually thought that was the number I should call. Silly me. I'll know better next time. Hey, if I ever need to call, say, Comcast again, maybe I should dial the Direct TV number. Why didn't I think of that sooner. Duh! That's what my problem was all along. I was actually dialing the number of the company I was dealing with!
Attitude? I could show her attitude.
Well, they would have to mail me the temporary pass code. They weren't allowed to give that out over the phone.
Okay.
Well, it would take seven to ten days to get it.
Okay.
And I would have to verify the address.
Look, if you don't want me to be able to pay my bill online, just come out and say so, but I was under the impression, after being forced to listen to your shameless plug for online registration, that you were actually encouraging people to do just that!
We parted ways slightly less than amicably, and I'm not holding out much hope of ever receiving that code.
That's okay though, because if I don't', I'll know next time to call Sprint or MCI and not the number on my bill.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Call of the Wild
Tim and I love animals. We've been kissed by dolphins, hugged koala bears and even petted stingrays. And then we go home and leave the animals where they belong...far away from us. This past weekend though, there was to be no escape.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
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