Chapter 53

“What’s his name?” most of them asked.

“Wilbur,” I would say.

The guesses as to why varied, like those who spoke. There was a five-year-old, a woman in her eighties, and a group of teenagers.

“Like on Mr. Ed?”

“After the Wright brother?”

“You come from Pennsylvania?”

“You named your dog after the secretary of commerce?”

I’d never even heard of two of the things people had suggested.

An entire family stopped to chat at one point, a mom who looked frazzled, her husband, and four kids, toddler to teen, which explained her look. “I get it,” she said. “Some pig. The special messages…They thought he could write and all that, from Charlotte’s Web.”

Ding, ding, ding. We had a winner.

“Yes,” I said, snuggling Wilbur to my chest. “He can be some pig, too, at dinnertime.”