From my personal experiences, I would have expected absolutely no other outcome.
Personal experiences from travels with a pig? Oh, yeah, I've got 'em.
Additionally, that a pig would need to be arrested comes as absolutely no surprise to me. Pigs seem to take great delight in looking for trouble. Pigs have little respect for rules, acknowledge no authority other than that which exists within the hog herd and those pugnacious, pug-nosed porcines are ever ready to tussle to challenge even that authority.
Wreaking absolute havoc is the only thing that pigs seem to enjoy more than the clichéd, but accurate, roll in the mud or feeding at the trough.
I came upon my anecdotal evidence of life with pigs shortly after moving to Ohio from Massachusetts.
Jo-Ann and I tend to start a different way of living with each of our many moves.
We have lived in a beach condo, a city townhouse, a Maryland cottage, a New England Gambrel, a shack on Cape Cod, a Mid-Western bungalow and a suburban Mid-Century Modern in addition to the Civil War Era, Country Victorian farm house that we called home when we relocated to the Buckeye State.
Such an assortment of houses has helped to add a bit of variety to our lives as we attempted to morph, oft times with absolutely no success, to fit in with the various home styles and very different communities.
With Adirondack chairs and neighbors who were so close that we could speak from window to window left behind, we made our way onto that Ohio hobby farm with a 140 year old house a barn and 5 acres of land that simply demanded the addition of livestock and farming of some variety.
That we knew nothing of either livestock nor farming of any kind would deter us not at.
Pigs first gained our attention as we drove down a country road during our first Ohio Spring.
Momma sows roamed the off season corn fields with the cutest, most animated, frolicking little piglets running literal circles around them and each other.
Not surprisingly, after but a moment's notice of those adorable little critters, Jo-Ann declared with much enthusiasm, “I want a pig!”
We had no sooner arrived home than I was on the phone calling our neighbors, Farmer and Mrs. Brown, who were commercial hog farmers.
While Farmer Brown and wife were nearing retirement, they still maintained several hundred hogs, or so it smelled whenever the wind blew from their homestead to ours.
When Mrs. Brown answered her phone, perhaps one of the last rotary dial types left in the country, I expressed our desire to purchase two piglets.
After hearing my request, she assured me that a single hog would provide all the meat that Jo-Ann and I would need for the year and that we could save a lot of trouble by just purchasing one when it was ready for slaughter.
I braced myself against the countertop to prevent the fall that nearly resulted from the light headedness that overtook me at the very idea of eating one of those sweet little piggies.
When I regained my composure and told Mrs. Farmer Brown that we had no intention of eating the pigs but, rather, of making them our pets, the line went silent.
I am convinced the pause was the result of Mrs. Farmer Brown also having to brace herself against the ensuing lightheadedness that must have overtaken her as she came to fully realize that idiotic city slickers had just moved next door.
Just as I began to think that she had hung up on me, she said, in an tone that was as barely recovered from absolute shock as was my own, “You don’t want our hogs for pets. Maybe you should look for one of those potbellied kind.”
I then heard the phone click as she truly did hang up and, I'm quite certain, immediately went in search of Mr. Farmer Brown to warn him about the new neighbors with which they would now be contending.
It was just as well that the call ended quickly because, in such a rural area where Wi-Fi was as equally unheard of as a "jacket required" restaurant, I needed my phone line free so that I could plug in my computer modem and begin my search for a potbellied pig.
I learned that Vietnamese Potbellied Pigs, which had sold for thousands of dollars each only a decade before, when people were foolish enough to believe that a pig would be a suitable pet, were now often surrendered to rescues and were in abundant supply at pig adoption facilities.
Jo-Ann and I, while absolutely no less foolish in our pet pig pursuit than those who had paid dearly to be on the cutting edge of pig parenting, were fortunate in that we began our search after those previous folks had realized that pigs behave like, well, pigs.
Discarded pigs were spared roaming the countryside and suburban streets, having been kicked to the curb like unwanted strays, only because, when they were considered valuable and in high demand, most of the little squealers had been micro-chipped and, therefore, traceable to their owners in order to prevent pignapping.
My online search revealed that each State actually had a pig coordinator, designated by The Potbellied Pig Rescue Association of the United States, to oversee adoptions.
I quickly logged off, unplugged the modem, reconnected the phone line and called the Ohio branch of The Potbellied Pig Rescue to arrange delivery of our chubby little bundle of joy.
While I would have expected equal enthusiasm on the part of the coordinator, who was being given an opportunity to place one of the hundreds of little piggies from the vast rescue piggy network in a home, my call was actually met with much skepticism.
I found myself actually having to justify why we wanted a pig and answering questions of just how we planned to care for the little porker IF and when we were allowed to bring one home.
I also learned that referring to a pet pig as a ”porker” was taboo and not at all acceptable by the Pig Rescue crowd (cult).
Pet Pig People and Regular Pig People have a very different viewpoint on the purpose of those critters.
After the call, I had the feeling that I had less than impressed the lady, who simply referred to herself as Newton’s Mom.
Indeed, I ended that lengthy and quite tense conversation with the full realization that she had, in fact, transformed her entire identity into being Newton’s Mom.
Newton was, of course, a pig.
During the conversation, Newton’s Mom did, somewhat reluctantly, agree to contact the closest Pig Mentor to my location to arrange a face to face interview (interrogation) and an inspection and evaluation to make certain that our property was sufficiently suitable for a pig to call its home.
I volunteered that my barns were old but that I would gladly do some renovations to accommodate the little hog (in, what seemed, the unlikely event that I would actually be approved at some point during the pig adoption process).
Newton’s Mom, even less impressed than she had been during the earlier part of my call, informed me that while a pig could very well enjoy some outdoor time during the day; scampering about the barnyard under close supervision, it was fully expected that it would actually be living inside the house and not (audible gasp from Newton’s Mom) inside of a barn.
Jo-Ann really, really wanted that pig so I agreed to do all in my power to make our actual house pig worthy, whatever that meant.
It occurred to me that I should probably be offended, although never let such be known, that our abode could potentially be labeled by someone like Newton's Mom as not quite good enough to house a hog.
When the pig mentor arrived a few days later, she introduced herself as Little Bit’s Mom.
Little Bit’s Mom, much more pleasant and encouraging than Newton's Mom, explained that all new pig parents needed someone to help guide them through the process of becoming a truly suitable pig parent and that, should Newton’s Mom and The Pig Powers That Be grant us the privilege of adopting a pig, she would be there for us every step of the way.
Little Bit’s Mom looked our house over and gave us several "helpful" recommendations.
To assist in our successful cohabitation with a hog, she suggested pulling up all the carpet and replacing it with wood flooring as pigs love to root down, pull up the carpet from the room corners and shred the rugs. Her chuckle indicated that having rugs in her home was but a distant memory.
Next, she recommended removing the wall paper and painting the interior as pigs love to grab ahold of wall paper, rip it from the walls, and tear it to smithereens. She chuckled again as if to suggest, "How precious!"
As an absolute minimum towards pig preparation, the garbage cans simply had to be placed behind a locked cabinet door. Those sweet little scallywag swine do so love to overturn garbage cans and spread trash from one end of the house to the other!
"Oh, the memories," said the smile of one has crossed over from sanity and into an alternate world where crazy seems sane.
Additionally, she told us that placing any object that was currently less three feet from the floor onto a shelf higher than three feet from the floor was highly recommended as those little piggy scoundrels simply love to reduce to rubble anything which they can reach.
We would not, it seemed, ever again be able to have nice things, or even un-nice things which ended up within the possible clutches of those dear, demolishing little imps.
Jo-Ann, learning of the messy and destructive habits of pigs, was becoming less enthusiastic about pig parenthood by the moment while I, now feeling directly challenged by the multitude of insinuations that I was altogether unworthy to own a pig, was becoming completely committed to the pig adoption approval process.
Little Bit’s Mom, after a thorough interrogation of Jo-Ann and me, both together and separately, announced that we should get to work on the recommended pig proofing of our home and that she would begin checking our references.
Pending favorable recommendations and accolades from our parents, friends, neighbors, veterinarian, former pastors, teachers at every level from Pre-K onward and our high school prom dates as to our potential suitability for the receiving of a pig into our home, she would forward our packet upward to Newton’s Mom.
We waited, nervously, as the background checks, far more thorough than the screening for the Top Secret Security Clearance Jo-Ann received while in Washington, DC’s Army Command post, were completed.
Then, following the fact finding and suitability phase of our application, we continued to wait as our case sat pending before the judgement of Newton’s Mom and the Pig Committee of Ohio branch of The Pot Bellied Pig Rescue Association of the United States.
As days turned into weeks, I assured Jo-Ann that if the Ohio adoption efforts failed there was always the potential to travel to Vietnam, where the potbellied pig originated, to get a piglet.
Adoptions from Asia were, after all, becoming commonplace.
At long last, just days before getting our passports and vaccinations updated for the trip to Hanoi, we received a call from Newton’s Mom and were told that we had been granted a "very conditional" approved for a pig adoption.
In order to gain full approval, being that we were recent country transplants with little in the way of pig rearing experience, I would have to travel to my home state of Virginia and spend a week at a large Pig Rescue facility where I would receive intensive hands-on training in vaccinations, hoof trimming, tusk tweaking, pig nutrition (slop was not an approved staple among pet pigs) and overall care of a hog from piglet to geriatric stages.
IF I successfully completed my time at The Pig Training Academy, which Newton’s Mom’s tone indicated was quite unlikely in her estimation, I would be allowed to return home with a pig to call our very own.
Calling it our very own, however, would be a bit misleading as the Sanctuary would retain rights to the pig for the remainder of its life and contractually would have the authority to repossess our little adoptee for any reason deemed appropriate by Newton’s Mom and/or The Pot Bellied Pig Committee of Ohio.
Newton’s Mom then asked how I planned to transport the baby home (in the unlikely event that I passed the final phase of the stringent adoption training).
I told her that I had secured a large dog crate and would be driving in my Ford F-150 which I, on the cusp of becoming a farmer, had recently purchased under the assumption that the first step to becoming a farmer was to own a truck.
She hesitated a moment, in which I am quite certain that I heard the smack and rub of her hand to her forehead and down her face, before asking about a camper top. When I told her that I did not have a camper on my truck, the line went as dead as it had when Mrs. Farmer Brown learned that I was looking for a pet pig rather than a pork dinner.
Apparently, Pig People of any variety have to pause to fully take in and digest the things that I tell them on the telephone.
After requiring more than a moment to compose herself, Newton’s Mom informed me, through what sounded like clenched teeth, that a pig simply could not be, WOULD NOT BE transported in the back of a truck exposed to the elements: raging sun, potential rain, high pollen counts and possible coal dust in the air as I passed through West Virginia.
I would, if I had even the slightest hope of returning home with a pig, have to bring a van in which the pig could ride in the comfort of air conditioning, complete with an air filtration system and, presumably, able to listen to classical music to soothe its nerves during the long ride home.
Catching our first break in the potential pig parent process, Little Bit’s Dad, who worked for a car rental company, agreed to rent me a pig-ready van. He, a Pig Parent and veteran of many a drive with hogs, understood exactly what was needed.
So it was that, on a June morning, having given up our previous vacation plans so that I could, instead, spend my break from work at The Hog Academy of Virginia, I found myself on the road from Dayton, OH to the Blue Ridge Mountains at the helm of a rented Dodge Caravan, seats having been removed and lots of room made for a little piggy to cry “Wee, Wee, Wee” all the way home (in the unlikely event that I should be granted a “pig worthy” certification).
As a teen, I had considered going to school in Charlottesville. I, at long last, had my opportunity to do so, although I would leave as an alumni of Potbellied Pig U rather than UVA.
I spent the next several days in mud and muck, trimming the hooves of screaming hogs in the midst of a thunderstorm, mixing feeds, giving vaccinations, worming piglets, rubbing bellies and learning more about hogs than I ever knew that there was to know.
I noted that Sanctuary pigs lived in barns rather than in homes, as was required of adoptive pig parents, but I was too concerned with making a good impression to point out the hypocrisy.
I traveled to an elementary school along with a young pig on a leash as part of Potbellied Pig U’s community outreach and pig education program.
I met and worked alongside volunteers at the Sanctuary, all of which were vegetarian, most vegan, and each one a bit more odd than the last.
I met Big Earl, a 500lb Yorkie (Hog) who had the Sanctuary’s phone number painted on his side beneath his name and who roamed the countryside freely although, having just returned to the Sanctuary following a very expensive operation to remove a bowel impaction, Big Earl hung around the barn most days during my stay there.
When at last my intensive training came to a close, I was, much to my surprise and to my considerable relief, deemed acceptable to adopt a pig!
I truly had no idea, up until the announcement of my successful completion of all required criteria on graduation day, if I was going to pass the scrutiny of the Sanctuary manager, survive the whispered and unkind gossip of several of the volunteers who had witnessed me intentionally ignoring a pig that had rolled over for a belly rub during a particularly heavy downpour in a particularly muddy area of the pen and, especially, after failing miserably at protecting the leashed piglet from the legion of swarming elementary school children who wanted to touch our Show and Tell star. Miss Piggy, my hog on a rope, suffered none at all from the experience, fortunately. Rather, she quickly rolled over as the throng approached and relished the belly rubs from the multitude of tiny, clammy, kiddie hands.
Quite truthfully, I was far too busy warding off those rug rats from touching me that I was altogether unable to offer much in the way of guarding the pig, especially since she, unflinching in the presence of dirt, grime and slobber, welcomed the touches of those children while I, most certainly, did not.
Even though a Pig School Graduate, I was, quite naturally, still in only the internship phase and would be under the close supervision of Little Bit’s Mom.
I was, as warned, required to sign a lengthy contract that spelled out the terms of the adoption, including the fact that the pig was able to be repossessed by the Sanctuary at any time that we were considered less than perfect pig parents or were ever, from that day onward, heard referring to ourselves in any way other than as “Hannah’s Mom" or "Hannah's Dad”.
Hannah, it was determined through a suitability process not unlike that employed by Match.com, was the pig with which I was to be paired.
Hannah, I should also mention, was not a baby piglet at all but an old, grouchy sow on the far side of advanced age.
I was not even certain that she would survive the trip home and feared the liability and lawsuits I would suffer at her demise which were, without doubt, outlined and agreed to by me during one of my many signatures on the multiple pages of the pig adoption contract.
Hannah was also part of a family band of three pigs which simply could not be, would not be, separated and how dare I even ask to not take all three and be thankful to do so was unspoken very loudly.
I had spent months wondering if I would be approved for a single little pig only to find myself ambushed into becoming, arguably, the Alpha Male of a herd of old sows.
With my freshly signed graduation certificate, adoption contract and pig caretaker status paperwork in hand, I loaded the three protesting hogs into the Caravan and started my trip home.
Truly, at that moment, the important thing was not that I was returning home with a little pig but that I had successfully completed the adoption process! Come what may, I had succeeded in obtaining my approval letter from The Potbellied Pig Rescue Society of the United States, suitable for framing.
I pulled slowly out of the drive, amidst tears from the Sanctuary owner and waves from the volunteers, directed, I shall always believe, at the pigs rather than to me as I am quite certain they were still whispering disapproving comments about me to one another.
In a prelude of what was to come, I had not yet even shifted into second gear when all three pigs simultaneously evacuated their bowels.
The stench was, instantly, overwhelming so I pulled over at the end of the driveway.
Unfortunately, I had rounded a bend and was out of sight of the Sanctuary volunteers who may have, possibly, elevated my reputation ever so slightly in their very critical minds had they seem me remove a t-shirt from my luggage, pick up and throw out an impressively large pile of fresh pig biscuits.
Pulling away from the first stop sign I came to, which was less than a mile away from the spot where I had cleaned my first round of piggy poo, all three managed to drop another load.
I cleaned that up, as well, but by the time I reached the Interstate, the piles of poo had been replenished several times over. Realizing the futility of cleaning up what seemed to be a never ending source of pig poop, I accepted that the eight hour ride home would be less than pleasant.
Little Bit’s Dad had, thankfully, put down a plastic tarp covered with blankets upon which the pigs could ride and which protected the carpet, if not my senses, from the onslaught of pig excrement.
Other than the frequent potty episodes, the pigs travelled surprisingly well so long as the van was moving. Whenever stopped, though, they began to raise a deafening raucous. I received more than a few stares as all three pigs voiced their displeasure at every traffic light and/or stop sign that caused me to pause between Charlottesville and Dayton.
By journey’s end, my ears were ringing, my clothes and hair reeked of pig fumes and the victorious feeling that had accompanied the hard won approval for pig adoption was being replaced by the realization that I was now a "Proud Pig Parent"; a fact which was boldly stated on the bumper sticker given to me by Big Earl’s Dad as part of my graduation ceremony.
Jo-Ann, expecting to be handed a swaddled little mass of adorable pink piglet, gave me a slack jawed, "What have you done?" stare as three hogs paraded into the house grunting, grouching and looking for something to eat or to destroy which, other than pooping or napping, is pretty much how a pig fills its days.
Once I got the pigs settled in, I left Jo-Ann, who was altogether untrained in proper pig care, but fiercely protective of our rugs, wall paper, garbage cans and what-nots, to watch over our herd of swine as I did the best I could to clean the Caravan.
While the tarp had prevented any stains to the carpet, the smell, a presence unto itself, was a different story altogether.
I bought and used an entire bottle of Febreeze, then bought and used an entire second bottle which proved no more able to rid the Caravan of the odor that had permeated every fiber of the van’s interior, than had the first.
With little in the way of options and with my nerves shattered and patience worn from the last several hours on the road with pigs, I returned the Dodge Piggyvan to Little Bit’s Dad’s rental company.
When asked by the rental agent if everything had gone okay with the vehicle, I replied, “The van ran great but it really, really stinks inside!”
The agent offered his sincere apologies for any unpleasantness that I had endured and asked me to describe the odor. He seemed particularly concerned that someone had dared to smoke inside.
I assured him that there was no evidence that smoking had taken place inside the van and then said, “To be honest, it smells like someone hauled a herd of pigs in it!”
Noticeably relieved that cigarettes were not the source of the stench, he chuckled a bit and said, “I wouldn’t even know what a herd of pigs smells like.”
As I walked away, I said, “You will, Sir. You will.”
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Thanks!
Shawn
PS Ken Vallie, I honestly do not know whether to thank you or to loathe you for bringing back these memories from the pig arrest article which you sent! ;)
Shawn, please..please..please write a book.
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