INVASION OF THE MONSTER PIG

This happened a few years ago, but it made an indelible impression on me. I decided to post about the incident, in case something similar happened to any of my readers. I previously wrote a brief account of this incident, because I was a bit ashamed of being such a ninny. I'm past all that now. Here's the entire story, with all the details. Enjoy!

I was in the shower when the dog started barking. By the time I’d pulled on some clothes, my sweet Rottie was alternating between turning circles on my bed and lunging at the window. I’d just retrieved the mini-blinds tangled around her head when I glanced up and found myself staring into the face of the most enormous pig I’d ever seen.

Being an idiot, I stepped outside for a better look. The pig was much larger than I’d realized – easily over six feet long – and its girth was breathtaking. It looked as if it were planning to stay awhile. I promptly called Animal Control.

“There’s an enormous pig right outside my window,” I said. “And there’s something wrong with it, so you need to come get it, right away.”

“Whaddya mean? What's wrong with it?” the operator asked.

“He might be hurt. He has something stuck in his mouth – like tubes, white tubes. Maybe he’s been rooting in garbage?” The operator snorted.

“Honey, those aren’t tubes. They’re tusks.”

“Tusks? Pigs have tusks? Like elephants?”

“Yep. If it’s over six feet long and as big around as you say, then those are definitely tusks. I’d guess it weighs over 600 lbs, and that’s on the low side.” She sounded amused.

“I’ll take your word for it. I’ve never estimated pig weight,” I said.

“You say it’s a male?” she asked.

"Hoo-boy, it's definitely a male."

“And it’s not your pig?”

“No, he just showed up in my yard. My dog went crazy and tore up my blinds when she saw him. When I put her in the backyard, the pig tried to get through the gate, to be with her. The barking didn’t bother him a bit. Apparently, he likes dogs.”

“Hmph. Whoever owns him probably has a dog, too.”

“But there aren’t any farms around here. This is the city,” I pointed out.

“Honey, people keep all kinds of things they’re not supposed to. He probably belongs to one of your neighbors.” She sounded a bit weary.

“Well, I haven’t see anyone walking THIS pig,” I said. She laughed.

“I’ll put an emergency pick-up call in right now,” she promised. “Just sit tight, and keep that pig right there!”

I hung up, wondering how I was supposed to do that. I had no idea how to entertain any kind of farm animal, much less a 600-lb pig with tusks. What did pigs like? Magazines, documentaries? What would interest a pig? Wait – of course, food!

I slipped back into the kitchen and made a sandwich – well, four sandwiches, actually. He WAS a pig, after all. I searched the kitchen for a container large enough to serve as a water bowl, and finally had to settle for a gigantic plastic Jack-o-lantern. When I struggled out to place the Halloween bowl in front of him, water sloshing everywhere, the pig looked wary. To put him at ease, I splashed my hand in the water a little, then licked my fingers.

“See?” I coaxed. “It’s just water. Have a drink while I go get your sandwiches.” He seemed to be thinking. So did my neighbor, who was standing about 12 feet away, peeking around the corner of her house.

“Just where did you get THAT?” she demanded in horror.

“No, no, not mine,” I promised. “He's lost.” I hurried past her to my kitchen door to get the sandwiches.

“What are those white things in his mouth?”

“Tusks. You know, like an elephant.” She was gone before I could blink.

After polishing off all of the sandwiches and drinking most of the water, the pig seemed a bit restless. He stood up and sort of ambled around in a circle before targeting a spot alongside our house. He dug those little pig feet into my grass, and in about two minutes, he’d carved out a lovely bed for himself. Then he dropped down into the bare earth and sighed with content.

I excused myself to go back inside and call Animal Control again. A different person answered, and made me go through the entire story. When he finally finished guffawing, I said, “I’m glad you’re amused. Now, when will you be picking up this pig?” I hung up with another promise ringing in my ears – but I was getting suspicious about my would-be rescuers.

I grabbed the newspaper and took another plateful of sandwiches out to my guest, who munched as I read to him. He seemed to especially enjoy “Dear Abby” and “Ann Landers” – I could tell by the grunting. He liked the opinion columns, the letters, and most of the features, especially when I read them with different voices. When we finished the paper, I stepped back inside to find alternative reading material. I spotted “The Pokey Little Puppy” in the bookcase (from when my daughter was little - I prefer biographies) and grabbed it.

As expected, the pig loved the book even more than the newspapers. I read it to him twice. He looked like he was smiling. I think the pig was having a pretty good time at my house. Since I didn't have anything else to read to him that I thought he'd be interested in, I sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" to him, doing all the hand gestures. He really liked that one.

"Hmm... want me to read you the book again?" I offered. He did, so I did.

After another two hours, I called Animal Control again – apparently after a shift change. When I asked what time they’d be arriving, I got a different answer:

“Oh, no, we’re not coming out there! Those things are extremely dangerous! Uh-uh, no way - that’s a job for the sheriff’s department. Here, let me give you the number.”

I sat down, still holding the receiver. Extremely dangerous? Really? I peeked out at the pig, who was napping in his “dug-out.”

I called the sheriff’s office and went immediately to the cheerful music of “hold purgatory” before finally reaching an actual officer. Hanging up the phone, I sat back down with the pig to wait. I apologized for getting him in trouble with the law. I’m a good judge of character, and I could tell he was a good pig at heart. I doubt if he'd ever been arrested before.

Much later, the sheriff’s department finally called me back to say that they’d be stopping by soon to pick up the pig. I had no idea what I was in for. For some reason, I expected a squad car (in retrospect, I realize that the pig could never have fit into an SUV, much less a sedan). But the men arrived in force – with a truck, a livestock trailer, a deputy on horseback, and a couple of husky officers with ropes and heavy gloves. I was shocked – a HORSE?

I tried to explain that they didn’t need all that stuff, when one of the deputies tossed a rope over the pig. My docile guest transformed into a snarling, snapping, monster pig – and that was before they even tightened the rope. I was appalled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. I couldn’t believe they’d started without warning. The deputy ignored me and tossed a second rope over the pig.

“Stop it! Stop! You’re scaring the pig!” I yelled. “Look at him! Can’t you see he’s alarmed?”

Everyone but the pig looked at me as if I had lobsters growing out of my ears. As the pig thrust its head back and forth, the men stepped lively to avoid the tusks.

“I’m mean it!” I continued. “You be gentle with him! He’s . . . he’s sensitive! And I think he’s afraid of that horse. If you’ll just show him where you want him to go, I’m sure he’ll be agreeable.”

That’s when the laughing started. As the deputies on foot and the one on horseback guided the roped, snarling, fighting pig into the trailer, they continued to snicker. The only time they stopped was when the pig lunged a bit and scared the horse, causing it to rear up, which in turn terrified the pig. He pulled harder against the ropes, trying to get back to my house. I felt like such a heel for turning him in.

After they secured the pig in the trailer, the rider tended to his horse as the other two deputies returned to take my statement. They were still snickering.

“Is he okay?” I asked. More snickering. “You didn’t hurt him? Are you sure?"

“No, ma’am, we didn’t hurt him. It IS possible that we hurt his feelings, but not deliberately.”

He couldn’t continue until he stopped laughing. Another officer stepped forward to take over.

“Ma’am, is this your animal?”

“No! Why would I call you to come pick up my own pig? I just looked out my bedroom window and – well, there he was.”

“When was that?”

“This morning.”

“Morning? He’s been here all day?”

“Yes. Animal Control kept promising to come pick him up, until a couple of hours ago, when they told me I’d have to call you guys instead.”

“How did you keep him here?”

When I explained, the lead deputy kept breaking into laughter, bending over at the waist and laughing hysterically as he whispered, “She fed it sandwiches?” and “She read to it!” then hooting until he was out of breath, finally waving the tablet at the other deputy until that fellow took it and finished asking me questions. It took forever to give my statement, what with those guys laughing and punching each other in the shoulder. MEN!

“Where are you taking him?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The pig, of course.”

“To Pig Jail,” the deputy said, cracking up again. "Did you want to call his lawyer?"

“Very funny. Is it a long ride?” I persisted.

“What? No, just a few minutes away. Why?”

“I’m concerned, that’s all. He’s really upset. Will you make sure he gets food and water as soon as you get him there, please?”

The deputy straightened up, obviously offended.

“We do that with all animals, ma’am.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I said. “I’m just asking you to take extra care with this pig, because he’s so unsettled. I don’t want him to have a heart attack or a stroke or anything.” More snickering.

“Wait!” I yelled, as a horrible thought occurred to me. “He won’t get eaten, right? Nobody’s going to have him for bacon or ham or anything, right?”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, ma’am. He’ll be just fine.” They started to walk toward the trailer. I didn't care for his tone.

“Promise me that he won’t be eaten or sold to someone who will eat him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t take him.”

The deputy sighed deeply. I prayed desperately that he wouldn’t call my bluff; I did NOT want to have to explain a 600+ lb. pig in the backyard to my family that evening.

“Okay. I PROMISE you that he won’t be eaten, or sold to anyone who will eat him. All right?”

“All right. Just remember, you gave me your word –” I squinted to see his nameplate – “Duane. I’m trusting you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They walked away, towards the trailer, laughing again.

When my husband got home that afternoon, I showed him the dug-out the pig had left in our yard. (We measured it at seven feet plus in length.) Then I told him the whole story. You guessed it – he laughed, too.

Wherever that pig is today, I hope he’s happy and comfortable. After all, Duane promised he wouldn't be eaten, and I took him at his word.