I usually don’t go to book signing events because I find the huge crowds that come out to see me utterly overwhelming. So instead, my best friend, Richard, goes to the book signings because he is not as popular as me, and the crowds are more manageable. Here is Richard’s recounting of one such event   —Whizzy

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At my book signing events, I always give a little talk before people line up to get a signed copy of my book. At a recent book signing, I was halfway through my presentation—just some random thoughts about the characters and their antics and how my father used to tell Whizpig stories to my sisters and me as we were growing up—when a cute little girl sitting in the front row raised her hand. In fact, she did not just raise her hand, but it shot upward toward the ceiling like a space rocket. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail dangling to the side, and a baby shark decorated the front of her yellow sweatshirt. I would guess she was seven or eight years old, and she wore roundish, black-and-silver Harry Potter eyeglasses, which had slipped down her nose. Sitting next to the little girl was a grownup I assumed to be her father, wearing an identical sweatshirt, but with a daddy shark on the front. Dad was whispering to his daughter to put her hand down and let me finish my talk, but she insisted on keeping it raised, even waving her hand back and forth as if some catastrophe were about to happen if she did not get my attention—immediately!

I stopped speaking, intrigued by what the little one had to say, and as I looked in her direction, she blurted out a question: “Are the Whizpigs real?”

I was not quite prepared for such a question, although I had given the subject some thought in the past. This was my reply:

“What a great question, and by the way, I love the sweatshirt you’re wearing, and your dad’s too. Well, I believe the Whizpigs are as real as the pages in my book, as real as my father’s imagination, as real as any pink pig you’d ever see on a farm. Did you know that pigs are very smart creatures? They have thoughts and emotions, just like you and me, and they enjoy doing the same kinds of things, like playing, eating, and sleeping. I believe this is true of just about all creatures on earth, even the very small ones. Well, I’m not sure about cockroaches, but I think worms are pretty smart, especially the way they can regenerate themselves if cut in half—that’s something you and I can’t do!”

The little girl’s hand launched upward again, and this time before taking her question, I asked her name. “Beatrice,” she said, “Beet for short, or sometimes Beetie. Do you like my name?” Well yes, I replied, it’s a nice name and rather … distinctive, not boring like my name, Richard, or sometimes they call me Rick. But tell me, do you have another question, or are you just exercising your arm?” As the audience chuckled, Beatrice let fly her next inquiry: “Where do the Whizpigs live? Do they live near here?”

“That’s another good question, and what I can tell you is that they live in Whizpig Land, which is part of the Woody Woodlands, which is full of beautiful aspen trees and meadows and lakes and caves and stretches on almost forever. Whizpig Land itself is confined to a rather small area—basically a meadow near a lake, where the Whizpigs keep their campfire burning, surrounded by a wooded area, and beyond that Strawberry fields and Junction Canyon. It would take, maybe, a day or two to walk from one end of Whizpig land to the other. But the Woody Woodlands is much, much bigger. Does that answer your question?”

“No! Where IS it,” she called out.

“Well, if you mean where is it on Earth, I don’t really know exactly. Judging from the language the Whizpigs speak in my book—English—you might think they live in an English-speaking country like the United States. But the Whizpigs don’t actually speak English in real life; they talk in their own language instead. Whizzy, the Whizard of Whizpig Land, translates the Whizpig language—Whizpigish—into English so we can all enjoy the stories. And by the way, Whizzy also translates Whizpigish into Japanese, Italian, and Warlpiri. 

Hand’s up again: “Don’t the Whizpigs ever get tired of eating marshmallows and snails all the time?” “Not really so much,” I answered. “Like regular pigs, sometimes they eat grass and weeds, and roots, nuts, and acorns, and sometimes insects and even small snakes—whatever is around, they will try to eat. But the Whizpigs have a special fondness for marshmallows and snails, which make up most of their diet. By the way, what’s your favorite food?”

The little girl replied that her favorite food is birthday cake, but sometimes her dad makes her eat beets and Brussels sprouts, which she actually finds pretty tasty. And then she asked if I could answer one more question, just a little one, would that be OK? “We’re running short on time, but alright, just one more question,” I promised.

“Are you that little boy who gets to ride on the Dalmatian’s back, up into the sky and back down again, landing in Whizpig Land?”

“This is a tough one to answer,” I said, “because I’m not really sure. You see, I have dreams at night, just like you and everyone else. And sometimes I wake up, or I think I am awake but I am not really sure, and there stands the Dalmatian, right in front of my bed, and away we go. But am I that exact same little boy in my dreams and in the stories, or was that my dad, or perhaps someone else, or does the Winged Dalmatian visit lots of different girls and boys in the middle of the night, when the moon is bright with an old hoot owl perched right outside the window, calling hoo hoo hoohooo, hoo hoo hoohooo? That, I just am not sure about.” 

Following the book signing, I invited the little girl and her dad to my house for milk and cookies, and we enjoyed the remainder of the afternoon talking more about the Whizpigs and the Winged Dalmatian, and about the dreams we have in the middle of the night.