Skippy's Escape

Now that I have found myself with a rather large farm to tend and manage on my own, time is certainly precious.  Lack of hours is the reason I have been visibly absent from my blog.  Your forgiveness is greatly appreciated.  Those of you who have lived and survived divorce know exactly what I mean.  What work was usually done by two people falls heavily on the one left behind.  So, no one should be surprised that my shoulders are loaded with farmwork right now.

Mowing grass this time of year and with the amount of rain we've been having is an arduous task.  I am driving a Kabota, full-size tractor with a five or six foot finish mower behind.  On a good day when I don't bash into a fence post or tree, I can accomplish the task in a minmum of four hours.  But when the horses can't keep up with "mowing" their own pastures, I must get out there and cut their grass, too, just to make it manageable.  That one pasture, alone, takes me two hours.  So, one day a week must be devoted to cutting grass for six hours on this eight-acre farm.  And I won't even mention the weed-whacking around the fence posts and trees. 

Yet I do my chores here because I love this place and love, in a strange way, all the work it takes to keep it going and looking pristine.  It doesn't matter that at the end of my mowing stint I'm sweaty, sticky, and icky all over.  I have lovingly coiffed my farmland.  Passersby can only note that the person living here loves her property and all that goes with taking care of it.

So, the other day when I began the first hour of mowing, I unexpectedly came upon Skippy who was eating some of the farmer's alfalfa next to my patch.  When he heard the diesel chugging toward him, he became alarmed, probably thinking he was being a bad boy for sneaking alfalfa and that this big machine was coming to forcibly remove him from the field.  I laughed to myself as I kept driving towards him, and he looked each way, honing in on the sound of the tractor so that he could decide how to escape.  And I just kept going on my cutting route around the woods.  I certainly wasn't going to run him over with the tractor.  But he didn't know that.

I could see Skippy about fifty feet ahead of me, listening and deciding what to do about being caught between the alfalfa field and my tractor.  And, then, I could see that he had made a decision for escape.  Very deliberately he turned toward the woods, away from the alfalfa field, and began a slow bee-line towards the trees.  He took the shortest path--straight across--and before the tractor crossed his footsteps, he was already safely inside the woods where no loud machine could reach him.  Skippy's mad dash to the woods entertained me for the rest of the day.

I'm back!

Sorry for my absence: life has a way of pulling nasty tricks on us, thus shutting down the normalcy of everyday work. My response to the shock that came my way was to focus on the solution, to the ignorance of everything else, including my blog.

But I'm up and running again. One of the nasty things biting at my ankles like an annoying chihuahua was Death. I hate Death, the Grand Ruiner of all things.

In just a matter of a few months I lost several friends. Death broke into my home and took away several cats: Little Eggie, Bonnie the Bitch, and Maggie--all old felines but still helpless in the grip of the Grim Reaper.

Within a few weeks I had to invite unforgiving Death into my home and put to sleep the first of a number of aging pot-bellied pigs. First, he took Chico, a good-natured soul who could not keep weight on and simply deteriorated with each passing day. Then, Lowell, my first swiney friend who I bought for $50 back in 1994, looked at me with a pitiful face, a face begging me to take him from this life of aging misery and into a space of nothingness. With the nothingness came freedom from discomfort and pain. So, much to my own misery, I accommodated his request: I had him put to sleep.

This past Saturday I had Annie Louise sent into Death's skeletal arms. She, too, was old and had lost complete control of her back end. Death gladly took her despite my trying to hold on and extend her life.

As I grow old, so do my pets. What began as a farm housing fourteen pot-bellied pigs, now remains a home for my last seven, with Pauly, another elderly fellow, already knocking at Death's door. Every morning and evening and sometimes during the day, Pauly loses his balance, falls over and waits for me to come right him. He is much appreciative. But as he grows thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker, I realize he's not going to be able to sustain himself much longer. I expect him to live no longer than about two weeks. However, I promised him and myself that I would not let him suffer. And I won't.

I am sorry that I had to come back to my blog with such a sad, despairing tale, but Death is a part of life on a farm, not a farm for butchering animals but one for allowing them to live each's life to his or her natural end. Though Little Eggie, Bonnie, Maggie, Chico, Lowell, and Annie had good, full lives here and appreciated the good life on the Balliet farm, they didn't fear Death as I did. In fact, I feel they welcomed the monster. Behind the horrid face of Death lay calm and peace, and freedom from pain. And though Death took each one in slightly different ways, they suffered no fear because I was with each one at the Moment. I became the strength whereby they could say "Good-bye" without apprehension.

Death cannot intimidate or scare when someone is whispering "I Love You" in the dying animal's ear. In that moment, Death loses all his strength, his ferociousness--his mystery.

Contest: Help Fight Pet Cancer Jan 10 to Mar. 20

Pig Placement Network needs loads of votes in the Animal Rescue Site Challenge with Petfinder.com. to win a sizeable amount of money, which is all going toward pot-bellied pig medical research. Those of you following and participating in Luke Robinson's fight against canine and pet cancer research can fully appreciate that pot-bellies are also plagued by cancer. Pig Placement Network has been involved with several universities studying pet pig liver cancer--a pig's nemesis. I also introduced Luke Robinson to Susan Magidson, the key figure in the fight against pot-belly pig cancers, so that, together, they and the universities can pull their research. If you have a pet with cancer, know that these two groups, 2 Million Dogs and Pig Placement Network are working to discover causes of and treatments for the disease, and know, thereby, that their work always helps humans, as well. Please vote each day for PPN in this contest: Click on http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/sheltershallenge.faces?siteId=3. This contest runs everyday, starting today, until March 20. Thanks for your time; I know it's precious.

The Softness of the Rain

The day is soft,

Today I feel no tenseness in the air. The TV is off, Edgar off to work, all animals fed and resting in the calm that reigns under the padding of the rain. On not a very cold, razor-skin cold day that is typical for November, the air sliding in through my open window feels mild, mind-moist--comfortable.

As I write this entry, our new pup, Stewie, plays quietly on his bed, a prelude to cozying into a nap. Donnie the duck, no doubt, is paddling silently around his kiddie pool in his barn stall. Lately when I visit Donnie, he babbles in a strange language. His peeping has morphed into hoarse, duck-like squawks. My baby is growing up.

Should anyone tip-toe into our barn habitated by myriad cats, Donnie, four horses, and seven pot-bellies, he or she could savor the silence--especially in today's rain-cushion. Everyone is at peace--only rest on the mind. That's what is so settling about, so comforting about living with livestock and other animals: as long as they are well fed, sheltered, and in good company, be it animal or human, their world is at ease.

Imagine, in contrast, a room with so many people. What a cacophony of discussion and competition: rehashing workaday woes, bragging about each's gifted children, retelling efforts of multi-tasking, trips to the grocery store and the casino, talking of engines, cars, or the latest technological devices--arguing politics.

Unfortunately, I'd guess that we humans are not content most of the time. We sometimes feel uncomfortable under the umbrella of a soft rain like this. For many of us, the rain is a hindrance, a nuisance to our tasks. We need; we want; we seek; and we converse until we drop, dead-tense, into bed at night. We fail to hear the silence of the rain.

But today I'm embracing this gift of the padding mistlets--the soft sounds of silence. The rain has made me more malleable in mind and more sensitive--this rain that reflects a muffled-melody on a blanket of leaves: background music for my sleeping pup and my thoughts.

My Tribute to Amos the Wonder Pig

Amos the Wonder Pig has died.

And a little bit of me has died with him.

Anyone who does not have a pet pig may find my reaction to the news of his death as over-reaction, but I can't account for the disconnect that non-pig people may feel. That's out of my control. All I know is how empty I feel right now because I will never again enjoy his many talents and his perennial smile. I'm sitting here writing this tribute to Amos, tears running down my face, because, though he wasn't my own pot-bellied pig, I always felt, in some strange way, that he was mine; he and I had "talked" numerous times, and I felt privileged that he let me shae his company on occasion. He had pigsonality beyond any of my own fourteen pigs, even my own Lowell.

During many fall open houses at Susan and Richard Magidson's Ross Mill Farm, Jeannie Watson and her husband, Geoff, brought Amos, along with his brother, Pilot, and sister, Frosty, to the festivities. Amos entertained us all, just as he had on many occasions and for many years--we pig enthusiasts. After the contests were over and Amos had walked away with his share of the blue ribbons, I sat beside him, petting him and rubbing his belly--telling him how marvelous and talented he was. He could do all kinds of things, usually only attributed to one of the human species: toss a kiddie basketball through its hoop; act the magician by pulling a bouquet of flowers from a hat (to the "ooing" and "aahing" of the spectators). But his most incredible talent was his ability to spell.

Yes, Amos could, indeed, spell people's names. Jeannie taught Amos to spell when he was much younger. She showed him large flashcards with letters, and he associated the sound of the letter with the shape put before him. His ability to spell any name was fascinating--almost unbelievable--and one could only believe it after having witnessed it in person.

I remember the first time I met Amos at one of those parties. Amos' human dad and he came dressed alike--both wearing a candy-striped T-shirt, both wearing a red whirly-bird cap--one of those with a propeller on top (see the photo with this post). When I saw these two together, side by side, I laughed so hard I almost peed myself. In his happy garb Amos participated in all the games: snagging the pretzel on a string; winning the watermelon-eating contest; and bobbing for apples.

Amos the Wonder Pig wasn't just locally known. He was known all over New York and much of the East Coast. He had even appeared as a guest on one of the late night talk shows. I'm not sure if it was Johnny Carson or not, but it was a big-name show similar to Carson's. There, he bowled the audience over with his spelling ability and other talents.

Amos was a ham in the best sense of the word: he had a gift for entertaining, for making people laugh, for promoting pigs as not just animals to be eaten but as intelligent, sensitive beings who have much more to offer the world than existing to be food. Amos, the spokespig for pigs worldwide, spread the word that a pig can be so much more than pork on a fork. He spread the word to many, many people and children who watched him perform that a pet pig is intelligent, grateful, loyal and entirely capable of loving and being loved by his human companions. Thank you, Amos, for restoring pigs' reputation to what it should be, rather than to what most people think.

My deepest condolences go out to the Watsons, Pilot, and Frosty, for they have lost their dear friend and family member And my condolences to those of you who had never met or seen this incredible pig, whether on TV or in person.

My Amos. I will never forget you. I will never forget your happy smile.

Piggy Resort and Spa in Pennsylvania

Many vacationers may have stayed at a Hampton Inn and Suites before, but I’m sure they’ve never been afforded the royal treatment as many pet swine have had while staying at Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa. This specialty “Ham-ton Hotel” sports spa facilities equivalent to the most luxurious of those created for humans. The guests, however, are all pigs—yes, real porkers—pot-bellied pigs that don’t put up a stink at this place.

Not only does Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa cater to the spoiled swine pet, who may be staying while his or her owner is on vacation, but this farm, located outside of Doylestown, PA, also serves as a transitional home between homelessness and acquiring a regular, long-term home with caring and informed human companions. For instance, Ross Mill’s owners, Susan and Richard Magidson, together with the organization, Pig Placement Network, offer assistance to people looking to re-home their pigs or adopt a pet pig. In addition, they supply educational information to adoptees to better serve their new porcine partners. PPN and Ross Mill Farm even help people deal with problem porcine situations in order to facilitate the pig’s staying in his or her home. For people interested in becoming a companion person for a new adult or young pig, Susan assists with easing both the human and the pig into a compatible and loving relationship.

Susan says about PPN and Ross Mill’s role in helping those wanting a pet pig, “Sometimes a person will want to adopt a pig but has no idea that pigs need to be able to play and run outdoors. Pet pigs are mostly indoor pets and use a litter box as cats do. They need careful feeding and wise snacking. Fattening goodies are unwise choices because pigs gain weight so quickly, so adopters need to know to feed a low-calorie pot-belly pig feed soaked with plenty of water. And, of course, people need to check their zoning laws and have access to good veterinary care—all before taking a pig home.” Susan says, “I try to help people with any and all problems because we want the adoption process to go as seamlessly as possible-- we want the person to feel comfortable and somewhat expert in pig care so that the pig doesn’t end up in an adoptive situation again.”

A trip to the Magidsons’ “Ham-ton Hotel” is inspiring. Outside the main lodging runs the main street-path separating the rows of single-dwelling pig homes and properties. Some swiners at Ross Mill prefer outdoor living; they’re more the camping type, but their facilities are no less attractive than those residing in the complex’s main inn. In the newly built lodge, rows upon rows of pig rooms line the perimeter of this “hotel for hogs.” Eighty of the 150 pigs housed on the property belong to Pig Placement Network and have come there after being rescued. Most all of them find themselves in a re-homing situation that, until they find that ideal human who finds them irresistible, pampers them with respect, friendship, and love.

Any visitor interested in meeting a prospective adoptee will find themselves in an atmosphere where pigs come first. From her office in the lodge, Susan networks with people needing assistance adopting or re-homing a pig. Young pigs play and sleep at her feet as Susan works, and outside her office, a few pigs walk the aisles exploring and meeting others of their own kind. Occasionally, one hears snorting and squeals from two pigs arguing over the same blanket, but in a building that houses up to 70 pigs, this is a rare event. More often one only hears quiet and an occasional contented grunt muffled beneath a quilt.

Withinbn the lodge, pet pigs visiting Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa have use of a veterinary treatment room for minor surgeries and hoof trims. Another room is the Piggy Spa where vacationing swiners enjoy scented baths, ear and eye cleansing, and even whole body massages. No luxury accommodations are too good for Ross Mill pig guests.

Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa is in the business, not of rescuing pigs, but of re-homing pigs, vacationing pigs, dieting over-weight pigs, and providing pig-sitting services. Susan’s and Richard’s goals emphasize educating prospective pig owners in the quirks and needs of caring for a pot-belly pig so that the animal becomes appreciated and never has to be surrendered to a rescue.

Ross Mill Farm and Pig Placement Network gladly receive donations as well as supplies like blankets, dishes, soaps, cleansers, Clorox, shovels, rakes, and a supply of carrots and grapes. Check out both websites: http://www.rossmillfarm.com/ for a pictorial farm tour and http://www.pigplacementnetwork.com/.

Chico

Chico was one of the pigs we rescued about three years ago, he and his roomie, Sniffer. Sniffer, however, was with us for only six months before we found him dead one afternoon in his house. Just that morning Sniffer had eaten his usual big breakfast. Hours later he would be dead.

I've never witnessed such complete gratefulness as I have from these two pigs. A couple was divorcing, and the two pigs actually belonged to the wife. They were her pets, said the husband, but when she moved out in spring, she left the pigs behind, leaving her husband, who never wanted them in the first place, in charge of their care. Typical of couples splitting, animals left behind are often neglected, as were these two.

The day we arrived to see these pigs in need of a new home, we had to reach them with a four-wheel-drive truck. Right away I doubted that the husband had made the daily trek up the windy steep path--especially in winter--in order to feed and water them. I was right in my assumption. The two pigs were deathly thin and up to their shins in mud and manure. Inside their enclosure not one weed grew. Probably as soon as a green shoot peeked through the ground, the pigs gobbled it up before it could grow; they were starving. On top of a hill where I'm sure they suffered winter's blasts, ice storms, and snowstorms, these pigs existed on next to nothing.

I was shocked at first sight of the animals--so skinny, so cake-scaled with dirt. The one who appeared to be mostly white underneath all the mud, had a prolapsed rectum--typical of an animal that has been starved; the digestive system tries to work and keep things moving, but there's nothing to push out but one's own guts. And it wasn't bad enough that there was nothing for the pigs to eat inside their pen. What was worse was that there was no water--not even a bowl for water.

I was so angry with the husband and the wife, who had left months ago and with no regard for her pets, but for Edgar's sake and the pigs, I kept quiet, except for, "We'll take them."

I gave them water and cut some grasses growing tall just beyond their pen so that they could at least have dinner before we picked them up the next day.

We brought them home to our pig paradise where porcine people are treated with respect and cared for as they should be. I was really concerned about the white one's prolapsed rectum, but Edgar assured me that as soon as it had some real food passing through the gut, it would disappear inside where it belonged. For as much neglect as these pigs endured for at least what had to be several months, I was awe-stricken by how accepting they were of me. When I got close to scrape the mud from their hides, they voiced objections but didn't run away or try to bite me. After all that people had done to them, they didn't resent my species. But I expected that eaction because the pig is Goddess's magnanimous animal-child.

Forgiveness is a trait common to pot-bellied pigs. They don't hold a grudge as my cats do and dogs. And it's not that they don't have stellar memories, because they're highly intelligent. Perhaps their intelligence allows them to realize goodness in another being, even though she may be a human. Walking around in their field of grass, the pigs knew somehow that someone had been instrumental in giving them a new life.

These days Chico lives a good life here with our other ten pot-bellies. He's healthy: his little butt-hole crawled back inside where it belonged, which is always a good thing. Chico spends his days walking the patch in search of goodies: dandelions, poison ivy leaves, and acorns. He tolerates my digging the dirt out of his eyes and grunts his appr9val and gratitude. One thing I know for sure: Chico is happy here.

And I am happy to have him as part of my pig family.

Louie Jay--Part I

When the phone rang in the Slocumb’s living room, Nancy dragged herself to it on wobbly legs. Since her favorite pot-bellied pig, Alton Louie, had died the day before, December 7th 2009, she just couldn’t get herself off the sofa--blown into a catatonic depression. Her best friend was gone. Alton and she had carried on many an intelligent conversation while Nancy networked on the computer or did the household accounting chores. She would ask him what snack he felt like eating, and he responded with a quick grunt that signified a strawberry would be fantastic. And Nancy popped the juicy morsel into Alton’s mouth while he munched, open-mouthed, a giant smile on his face. The memories, so happy and now so sad, flooded over her.
And the space where Alton Louie always lay in the living room was deafeningly empty.
“Hello?” she answered. She couldn’t have cared less who was on the other line.
“Nan?” her good friend said. “You okay?” Chrissy knew Alton had lost his battle with cancer and that the loss had thrown her friend into a funk, but, though Chrissy wanted to comfort Nan in person, the four-hour driving distance made a personal visit impossible.
“Hi, Chrissy,” Nan said. “I still can’t function very well. This one hit me hard.”
“I know—Alton was your fave—it was bound to hit you like a truckload of concrete. I wish I could be there. Look, I just came across an ad on Craig’s list. There’s a pot-bellied piglet for sale here in New Jersey—at some breeder. This pig is the last of the litter, and the ad says the piglet may have a broken leg. But the guy still wants $250 for her. Who would pay that kind of money for a pig with a problem? I thought I’d run it past you. What do you think?”
“Oh, I think it’s just too early, Chrissy. My Alton’s only been gone a day, and I’m still upset. I need time—a lot of time--to adjust to life without Altie.”
Chrissy said, “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I’m just worried about this piglet, though. You’re the only person I know who would care for her properly.”
“Like I said--I don’t think I can handle that right now, Chrissy,” Nan said. Then they said good-bye and hung up.
Nancy plopped back on the sofa and stared at Alton’s spot beside the TV. If Chrissy was worried about the injured piglet, then there was certainly something real to be concerned about because Chrissy wasn’t a drama queen. What would, ultimately, happen to a piglet with a broken leg—a pig that probably no one would want as a pet? Would she ever get a home, especially since the breeder wants to be paid for her? And, if someone bought her purely out of pity, would they be able to have enough money to fix the leg properly? Nancy thought about the little pig for some time, and then she called Chrissy for the breeder’s number.
By the end of the day, Nancy had spoken with Earl of Earl’s Pot-Bellied Pig Farm in southwest New Jersey. He said it was true, as Chrissy had said, that the female pig probably had a broken leg—most likely sat on and smashed by the mother. Earl also said the mother had actually kicked the little pig out of the nest at four days old but that he brought the piglet into his house and out of the cold. He was feeding her calf manna, antibiotics, and other supplements because she was so frail. Then, he finally said, “Oh, and she doesn’t seem to have a tail.”
Before she could even check herself, Nancy said, “I want her. Please don’t sell her to anyone else before I’m able to get up there from Virginia.”
“Well, I don’t know ma’am. My business is sellin’ pigs. If anyone else calls, . . .”
“Look, I’ll give you three hundred dollars for her, then.”
Earl was suspicious. “Lady, why do you want this crippled pig so bad?” He thought perhaps she was with an animal rights group that might have heard bad things about his animal breeding business. He’d heard about how rescue centers and animal adoption agencies hassled breeders all the time. “Naw, I don’t think I even want to sell her anymore.” He had to discourage this one, or he might find himself in a peck of trouble.
Nancy said, “Please, Mister. No one else is going to want or properly take care of a pig with a broken leg. And you don’t know—if you do manage to sell her to someone else—whether they are going to do right by her or, God forbid, butcher her for meat or, more likely, just get tired of having a pig that is a lot of trouble or an embarrassment. I don’t care about any of that. I just want to give this animal a good life. I’ll even provide you with references and friends who know how I keep my animals. They’ll vouch for the care I give them all. Please. Just hold her until my husband and I can get up there this weekend.”
Earl detected honesty in her voice. And who else was going to pay another fifty bucks for a messed-up piglet? “Okay, lady. I’ll hold her until Sunday. But it you don’t pick her up by then, she goes back on Craig’s list.”

Dennis and Nancy Slocumb arrived late morning at Earl’s pig farm on Sunday, December 17th. Earl walked from his house with four dogs howling and jumping alongside him. Though his place wasn’t a palace for pigs, it wasn’t too bad. At least it was clean, and it was obvious that Earl loved his animals. Earl motioned them into a little side room built onto the main house. There in a large Tupperware box sat a tiny three-week piglet up t her hocks in her own waste. The odor coming from the box was over-powering, and the piglet was thin, her skin scaley. She sat with her back to them.
Nancy’s heart sank. She wanted to pick her up and hold her right away, but she knew a piglet wouldn’t like a stranger hoisting her into the air, and a pig scream could tear an eardrum. So, Nancy just sat beside the plastic box and petted the pig’s back. Nancy looked at her husband, who was standing over her shoulder, and she knew he wasn’t excited about the whole situation. This would be a huge commitment that would last the lifetime of the pig—at least fifteen years, and this piglet wasn’t even a normal pig. This one stank like a sewer; she couldn’t walk right and had obvious medical issues; and she had only a nubbin for a tail.
“You sure you want to do this, Nan?” Dennis said.
Earl stood at the door ready to bolt if one of them declared themselves with an animal rescue league.
Just then the little piglet twisted around on her hind end and looked up at Nancy. Nancy said, “Yes, Den. I want her. I have to take her. Alton sent her to us—to keep us going. I can feel it.”
Earl sighed relief. “Ma’am, when her mother threw her out of the nest, I brought her in for bottle feeding. She can’t get around very well with that broken leg, but maybe it can be fixed.” Earl’s look softened. “And I can’t take $300 from ya. Just give me $250. I can tell you’ll give her a good home.”
“She’ll get the best home,” Nan assured him. Then Dennis brought in a cardboard box, lifted the squealing piglet inside, and walked with her to the car.
For the next four hours’ ride to her new home in Alexandria, Virginia, the Slocombs heard little piggy grunts and squeaks coming from the seat of the car. “She knows; somehow she knows,” Nan said to Dennis, “that she’s in good hands. We all just need time to adjust. First thing tomorrow when we go to the vet, I’m going to get her thoroughly checked out—X-rays, the whole bit. For tonight, I’m just going to feed her pot-bellied pig food. I think she stinks so much because he was feeding her stuff for calves. She probably had a bellyache the whole time.”
The little pig spent the night in an upstairs bedroom inside her traveling box inside another large dog crate. Earlier she had gobbled up a bowlful of pig chow, and she had a water dish as well as a low-edged litter pan—better for getting into with a broken leg. The next morning at the vet hospital, Dr. Wilbers turned the protesting piglet round and round on the examining table, and the din from the pig’s screams was ear-splitting. Nancy had to cup her ears, the shrieking was so intense and high-pitched. Then, Dr. Wilbers took him into the back for a couple of X-rays of his hips and legs. The whole time Nancy could hear her piglet squealing somewhere in the far corners of the vet hospital. In a few minutes the vet entered the exam room with the pig in his arms.
After he was finished examining the pig, Dr. Wilbers said, “Well, first, Nancy--you got yourself a little boar here. He’s not a girl.”
Nancy was stunned. “But the breeder said he was a girl!”
“NOT,” the vet repeated. “He’s got fairly major problems with his backend. Nothing’s broken—he was born deformed. Looks like nature formed him properly from the head to his mid-section and then decided she didn’t have time for the rest of him. His right leg is missing most of its bones and ligaments and is incapable of touching the ground--he can’t use it at all. It’s like from the knee down nothing formed correctly.”
Nancy’s heart sank.
Wilbers continued, “Now, the left leg: he can support himself on this leg, but the hip joint doesn’t work well, causing the left leg to pivot when he puts weight on it. And what should be a hoof is more like one toe.” The vet put the piglet on the floor, and he ran-hopped to the door like a rabbit looking for escape. “See, he can run, but he has to muster everything he’s got to be able to do it.” As if on cue, the piglet sat down and looked around at them. “See, even that little bit of exercise tired him out.”
Nancy bent down to pat the pig’s back, and he squeaked as if to say, “Don’t touch me!” If anyone could understand pig language, it was Nancy, having many years of conversations with her Alton. “I don’t think he likes me yet,” she said. “He doesn’t trust people--and I understand why.”
“Well, he’s healthy otherwise, though his anus is also a bit screwed up. But, it works, as you have seen already. He can get himself into a litter box, and, thanks to that left leg, he can get himself around well enough. But the right one is of no use to him.”
“What about his tail?”
“What tail? He’s got a nub where his tail should be. The most likely cause of these deformities is in-breeding. Even his color is weird: he’s all black except his back legs, which are white—almost like the normal black color stopped at his back end. Ya know, I’ve seen so many of these breeders go at this breeding business haphazardly. They breed mother to son and then that daughter to the same son and so on until the offspring are all screwed up. Then, the poor animal and some generous person such as yourself have to deal with all the problems. It’s a shame. I don’t know of anyone else other than you who would go to the trouble to take care of such an animal. Even his own mother didn’t want him.”
“Well, he’s my responsibility now. I love him already, although he obviously doesn’t love me yet. But he will. He can get around good enough, but I’m already thinking of having a set of wheels made for him so that he can run around.”
“That would be a great idea—just so that he can run and play without getting exhausted. He’d only wear it to go outside; otherwise, his left leg would work for him in the house—for normal activity.” Dr. Wilbers thought a while. “I believe the name of a company that makes carts for handicapped animals is K-9 Cart Company—somewhere around, I think, Oxford, Maryland. Its run by a vet by the name of Dr. Parkes. He fits all kinds of animals for wheels. I remember he fitted a rabbit, guinea pig, cats, dogs. Before you leave, I’ll give you the contact information. But let’s get this little guy castrated now. That’ll get rid of some of the stink, too.”
That evening little Louie Jay Slocumb arrived home tired from his long day at the veterinarian. Nancy named the piglet Louie in memory of Alton, whose middle name was Louie. And “Jay” was her husband’s middle name. Louie Jay gobbled his dinner, hopped over to go to the bathroom, and dived into his nest for a deep night’s sleep.
The next morning Louie Jay squealed for his breakfast. He ate his pig food, and while he ate, Nancy stroked him along his back so that he would get used to her touch and her smell. She knew all about training a piglet to respect and love a person. Her proof was her Alton, who grew to admire her during his lifetime. And, as she had done with her other pigs, after he was finished eating, she put his harness on and led him outside so he could go to the bathroom. Training Louie to love her would take time and patience. First, he needed to learn to trust people.
Nancy found it a bit strange at first having a piglet hopping and pivoting on one back leg as Louie did, but she could deal with it as long as Louie could, and Dennis had already set up a plywood ramp from the house to the back yard. There were many things to consider for her piglet, who was only disabled in his body but not in his mind. One thing was that she knew she’d have to keep Louie slim so that when he got to normal adult size that leg could still support him. Otherwise, he’d be prone to arthritis, and he could have other debilitating problems that could shorten his lifespan of twenty years.
Louie’s first few days at the Slocumbs were trying: he was bathed, which really got his ire up. He screamed like a banshee through the whole bath, but Nancy wasn’t about to give in. He thought for sure she would give up, completely frightened by his roaring and barking. But she didn’t. After the bath Nancy thought he looked fresh and more comfortable in his new skin because his bristles sparkled like patent leather.
Later that day while Nancy was busy in the kitchen, she heard a thump. She ran to check Louie and discovered him struggling to his feet alongside the fireplace hearth. He must have climbed onto the hearth, succeeded, but failed miserably when he tried to step down. Losing his balance, he fell head over his three heels and landed on his snout on the carpet.
A time later Louie had a run-in with the Slocumb’s Maltese terrier, Maggie--a mal-tempered, seven-year-old matriarch of a pooch who characteristically bullied any other animals on the property. She especially detested pigs, and, at sight of Louie, she attacked him with all of her six maniacal pounds--barking and snapping at the piglet. But Louie would have none of it. He set back upon Maggie, snapping and biting as well, only with more fury than even Maggie could muster. And when a pig bites, he doesn’t let go. With Louie attached to Maggie’s tail, the Maltese flew through the house, yelping and gurgling, until Louie released his grip. She ran, her tail between her legs. Louie would have no more hassles from Maggie again.
Those first few weeks acclimating to Louie Jay were tough, on both the piglet and Nancy. Though Nancy loved him at first sight, he still didn’t love her back. He considered her a hindrance, an irritation: she wanted to play with him too much, she monopolized the conversation, she bossed him around and made him do things he didn’t want to. He would have none of her. More than anything, he relished time outside by himself where he would spin, run, and dash about in the grass.
He loved to play by himself. He liked to be by himself. So, whenever Nancy tried to pick him up, he shrieked, warning her to put him down, “Right now, before I freak out” he seemed to say in his piggy language. And though she held him tight to her, he continued to protest--whining and barking in pig language that he was thoroughly irritated and wanted to be let alone.
Luckily for little Louie Jay, Nancy was a pig-person. She knew that only time would allow Louie to trust her and become her best friend. She realized that for an animal as intelligent as a pig, a person needs to prove her loyalty. She had no problem with that. She was in it for the haul. She’d need lots of understanding and diligence. She would need to be tougher than even Louie could be—for his own good. This was an obvious case of “tough love,” the love part of which she already had covered.
Part Two of Louie Jay coming soon with pictures.

Pigs in Snow . . .

. . . is like mixing oil with water. Pigs hate the cold, but they hate snow even more.

All our pot-bellies have overhead heaters in their pens. If you ever think of getting a pot-belly, you need to keep them inside the house just as you would an inside dog or, if he or she is to be outside, you need to provide heat--they are, after all, tropical animals.

We start up the heaters in late fall when the temperature drops below fifty degrees, and we throw in a couple of extra blankets for them to cuddle into--so that their very sensitive schnozzles stay warm and moist. The phrase, "Pig in a blanket" wasn't coined for no reason at all: pigs love snuggling into blankets.

I'll never forget when, may years ago, I first brought my first baby pig, Lowell, home. By the time the cold weather came, he had grown as round as my Electrolux vacuum cleaner. He was only half as long as the cleaner, but he was a solid cylinder that hoovered up hay scraps and other delectables just as the vacuum sucked up dirt. Pigs and vacuums have a lot in common.

Anyway, when late fall approached, I threw a couple of old blankets in little Lowell's pen in the barn. And I had also sifted through old clothes and dumped a couple pairs of old holey sweatpants in along with the blankets. Right away Lowell sidled over to the pile of old clothes and blankets and began his inspection: rooting and arranging the articles in pig-order. For pigs, everything has its place.

Later that evening I went out to do a barn check--making sure none of the horses had colic. As I looked around at each horse standing quietly in a stall, I heard a high whining coming from the corner. Lowell.

"Lowell?" I yelled, running over to his pen. I could see nothing but blankets in the twilight of the barn, but he had to be there underneath them somewhere. "Lowell!" I called, digging through the blankets. "Where are you?"

But all I heard was a very distressed, high-pitched whine that translated to, "Help!!! For cryin' out loud, help me!"

I flipped blankets from his pen, and as the squealing became more intense, I still couldn't make out the figure of my juvenile pot-belly. I knew he was there somewhere, but he was camouflaged within the tangle of old clothes and blankets. So, I continued to dig.

Soon I discovered what I could best describe as one leg of a sweatpant straining at the seams, filled to the brim--with my pig. Yep--Lowell had crawled down one leg of one of my old sweatpants and had gotten stuck in it. The pant leg resembled a over-stuffed sausage, and Lowell's muffled whine was originating from it.

With frantic speed, I went to work extricating the pig, but I had to work like hell--he was really stuck, and he was angry. Pigs don't tend to take responsibility for their own actions, being more likely to blame someone else for their predicaments. Lowell was so annoyed with me for having set him up with pants he could get caught in.

"Okay, okay," I tried to reassure him. "I'm working as fast as I can." Speed is very important to an irritated pig. The more I worked at the sweatpant, the more he yelled, "Hurry up! You got me into this thing, now get me out!" Finally, I accordioned the leg up and over his body, and he popped out. He grunted as if to say, "What the hell took you so long!" and I told him, "I can't help it you got stuck. Don't blame me because your belly is bigger than my thigh!" He glared once at me and went to the corner.

That happened about 15 years ago. Lowell is so big now, he'd never get even his head caught in a pant's leg. Still, he does demand he have clean blankets, and he adores his overhead heater, as do the other six pot-bellies that share the barn with him.

Even during a cold afternoon in the winter, the younger pigs, Skippy, Lillie, Ivy Mae, and Annie venture from their heated pens to snack on some hay in the barn. On sunny days they'll find a sheltered area in the sun and sun-bathe there until the sun fades into the west. Then they walk back to their pens and take a nap beneath their heaters until dinnertime. All--from a pig's perspective--is right with the world.

But what pot-bellies won't do is go for a walk in the snow. They detest cold, wet anything between their toes. And, when they venture out to check out their sun-bathing spots, if their trek is hampered by a layer of snow that had fallen overnight, they stand back several feet from the white stuff and begin complaining.

And, of course, the snow's being there is all my fault. "Wree-wree-wree," Skippy says, staring at the snow. In other words, "What did you mess up my yard for? You know I don't like walking in that stuff." And then I try to reason with him. "It's not my fault Skippy! I didn't do it. It came from the sky!" But he won't listen to reason and continues babbling and whining in pig language. "I DON'T LIKE IT! GET RID OF IT! GET RID OF IT ALL--NOW!"

I try to calm him by patting his shoulder and assuring him it'll all be gone in a few weeks, but it serves no comfort. He hates snow, and he wants it gone.

I'll be glad when spring comes. At least I won't get the blame for spreading around pig-feet- clenching snow. But then the spring rains will come. And those will be my fault, too. Pigs don't like rain either.