I arrived, dufflebag,
neckerchief and lanyard, at the farm of my piglethood where I would spend
the week under the watchful eye of not only Aunt Nancy, but also my
biological mother, Agnes of Hog, and the matriarch of the family, on my
mother’s side, Grandma Jitterbug.
"A young pig will have very little chance
for adventure with all this maternal supervision," I thought. Oh, so
very au contraire.
There was one particular half-sister of my mother’s
there who had obviously just discovered boars. She came swishing over to
where I was intently practicing my motor boat imitation in the wading
pool, and tried out her new-found charms. I explained to her that, as a
barrow about town, I had many other varied interests. Would she, for
example, like to hear about the time I wept when I listened to the third
act of La Boheme on public radio. But no, the shallow trollop.
I was trying to earn my plant identification
merit badge during my stay at camp and did quite well finding plantain and
chamomile to eat and recognized that lily of the valley was for smelling
only. I did not, however, garner any nominations for the "plays well
with others" award as I had little patience with the overly friendly,
countrified ways of my mother’s family. I had become a sophisticated
pig-child, you see, so curtly rebuffed their offers to join in team
sports. The other pigs my age clustered together across the pen from me,
forming the silliest and most out-of-season "naivete" scene you
could image.
I had been nosing about the playing field most of
the day, humming an old, familiar tune, tra la, tra la, neglecting
my increasingly pink complexion. (I have very fair, white skin that is
used to long afternoons pondering chess moves in the library while my
people are at work.) By evening, I had a most excruciating sunburn and,
brave though I am, couldn’t help giving an "eek" of pain at
each step. Aunt Nancy, the head nurse, dietician, and matchmaker, took me
inside and put soothing emollients on my back and ears. Oh, ah, eee! I was
ever so miserable the next day, but it soon turned into a lovely tan.
(Unfortunately it later peeled off after I got back home.) The gilts began
asking if I was a surfhog visiting from California and had I ever met
George Hamilton.
Around home now, my people-mom ties a damp
dishtowel on my harness to keep me cool and fair when I am going to be out
in the sun for a time, which is perfect for playing "Rutledge of
Arabia joins the French Foreign Legion" (Oui, oui-eee!).
Although by week’s end I had settled into a
rather pleasant routine of SPF 15 by day and aloe vera-vitamin E-oil of
oleo by night, I was eager to get home and do some thinning in my
vegetable patch, sleep in my own bed, and snoodle my own people. But the
folks hardly recognized me as a little brown jug-eared pig, but took me
home, scratched my belly, and fed me strawberries and Cheerios just the
same. (Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder!)
Now my spinach patch has waned but the mulberries
are falling. There is always adventure and snacks in the garden, or at
camp, for an imaginative pig who is keen of snout. I bid you a
purple-stained adieu.
"The Pig Person's Perfect
Pet"
