Convoy

“We’ve got ourselves a convoy!” I imagined Stewie thinking as I glanced at the S-Team gearing up for more mischief.

Stevie, my four-month-old Yorkshire farm pig, galloped out of the barn with Stewie, my Irish wolfhound pup, right behind him--up the pig’s rear end, pawing his back, and play-biting his flag-ears.

What a couple of goofy bed-fellows I have in these two animals: one a scruffy-haired, kinda droopy-lipped sight-hound of seven months and his best pal and confidant, Stevie, a white, smooth-bristled, pig—each weighing close to a hundred pounds. The two inseparables, both in their youth and fascination with this world relatively new to both, crave the outdoors and all the curiosities it has to offer, from the spring grass-shoots to the grubs emerging from their winter sleep, from the cats lurking beneath each bush and guarding atop each tree limb, from the horses neighing in the pasture to my planting elephant ears in the gardens. Everything lures their curiosity.

Stevie is Stewie’s mentor. The other day I watched from the kitchen window as Stewie concentrated on Stevie’s rooting technique. With such intensity that I have never seen in my hound before, Stewie watched as Stevie plowed up the muddy back yard. Stewie must have been thinking, as he saw Stevie bury his face, up to his eyes, into the ground, “Hm-m-m-m, must be food underground. I want some too. Should I be helping?” Since Stewie is not used to plowing earth with his nose, he didn’t exactly know how to get at the treasure beneath the soil, but he was learning how to adjust for his lack of a snout roto-rooter.

I watched as Stewie analyzed Stevie’s nose-plowing methods, and then suddenly, Stewie’s ears perked, and he looked at the ground in front of him. He sniffed, looked at Stevie, whose eyes were the only part of his face visible (the rest being covered by mud), and began to dig furiously with his front paws. He scratched and threw the dirt through his hind legs. Ground flew four feet into the air, and all the while he gaged his success with Stevie’s. Stewie was digging faster and deeper than was Stevie, but Stewie didn’t know what he was digging for.

And I? Well, it wasn’t bad enough that Stevie was plowing six-inch ridges into my backyard. (Incidentally, I take pride in my landscape design and beautiful tropical-looking gardens. This activity wasn’t enhancing the outdoor décor.) The two were in league together, against me and my landscaping. If I didn’t stop the partners in crime, my yard would look like the work of an excavator gone toxic.

Out the door I flew, shouting, “Stevie! Stewie! Stop it!” Stewie looked up as if to say, “What’s bugging you?” but Stevie, so intent on his digging, paid me no attention. So, I tromped into the muddy hole behind him and began to push on his rump. It’s not easy trying to move a hundred pound cylinder on legs out of an enticing mudhole. After ten minutes of yelling and coaxing, and with my shoes Frankenstein-heavy with caked mud, Stevie finally walked off into the woods where he can root until he collapses, for all I care. My gardens, however, are off limits.

Stewie had stopped digging when he saw how upset I was. And when Stevie trotted off into the woods with Stewie close behind, I muttered to myself, “Yep, we got ourselves a convoy.”

Remembering Harley

Sheryl, my trusty friend and supporter of all things piggish, has a penchant for lost and neglected pot-bellied pigs--as do I. If there is a pig nearby who needs help in the form of transport to a pig sanctuary, being rescued from a neglectful home, or protecting a pig in an abusive situation, Sheryl comes forward to help.
Such was the case when, through the grapevine, she learned, some five or six years ago, that a family was just "sick and tired" of their pet pig, and if someone didn't adopt him, he would be put to sleep.

Some people, especially ones that aren't too bright, adopt these pigs with only their one weak brain cell in gear. "Oh, boy!" they believe, "How cool to get a pig. I'll do it!" That's as far as they can reason. They do no research and fling themselves headlong into porcine ownership, not prepared for the consequences: that a pet who is smarter than its owner can easily control people and can rule the home; that a smart pet does not bolster a stupid person's sense of self-esteem; that the more intelligent pig will manipulate the human to its existential needs and drive the human to furious frustration. Despite the difference in intelligence, drive, and motivation, eventually the pig will lose--he or she, at the hands of the imbecile, will become grossly overweight, crippled, or blind; he or she will end up in a shelter, or he or she may be abused because the human possesses no insight to train and respect the instincts of a pet pig. Though a normally intelligent person enjoys the company of a pet whose smarts allow the two to "converse" and spend mutually beneficial time together, a pet pig in the company of a dolt always spells "DISASTER" for the pig.

So, one winter day Sheryl asked me to go along to rescue and possibly adopt this young yearling pig whose owners couldn't control him. We stepped into the house, and it was clear that we were dealing with a mother and older son who shared at least two flacid brain cells. After getting a few nebulous answers to some very important questions about his age, behavior, and breeding, Sheryl looked at me. This pig, Harley, was in a no-win situation; he needed a worthy home. So, Sheryl offered to give him the home every pig deserves.
On the way to her house, the pint-sized Harley sat in my lap in the passenger seat of the SUV. He was such a small, young pig--about as big as a wooden magazine rack. He wasn't a baby--more of a pre-teen. As Sheryl drove, I cradled Harley in my arms and assured him he would have an excellent home. He stared, looking out, his snout up against the window, and enjoyed the car ride and the snow-covered trees and sounds of traffic. When we stopped to turn left at a traffic light, another car pulled up on our right. Though our windows were closed, Harley and I both happened to look over just as the other driver looked at us. Meeting the gaze of a pig, the woman did a double-take. Her flabbergasted expression said, "What! A pig in a car! Sitting on a woman's lap!" The woman's mouth gaped in a wide grin; she turned to her passenger; and the other woman leaned forward to check out the spectacle. The light changed, and the three of us turned, Sheryl and I laughing at the confounded driver we left behind.
So, Harley came to Sheryl's home where he became one of a family of two other pigs: Porkchop and Forrest. The three tolerated each other initially and then became on and off friends and rivals in a relationship that always remained a power struggle. As do horses, cats, fish, and many other species, animals work out a pecking order amongst themselves. Harley, being the newcomer, was relegated to "underpig" and quickly learned to acquiesce to the other two. Lucky for him, Sheryl privileged all three pigs equally--no one was more loved or valued than the other.
Harley delighted in his new indoor home. In fact, since he was the "low" pig in the herd, Sheryl gave him his own room so that he wouldn't be picked on when she wasn't home. At night after she came home from work, the three pigs ate from their separate dishes, each sitting next to the other as they received their favorite treat of the day: a cream-filled Vienna Finger.
For the next five years, Harley, Porkchop, and Forrest were true "bros". On crispy mornings after breakfast, they burst through the doggie door into the backyard--always in search of a tasty morsel hiding in the grass. Each evening after dinner and the cookie, Porkchop and Forrest claimed the sofa and chair while Harley cuddled up with Sheryl on the living room floor to watch TV. He lay down beside her leaning his heft into her, the two--human and pig-- stretched out on the carpet. Porkchop and Forrest "owned" the furniture, but once in awhile when the others were outside, Shery called him to join her in the overstuffed sofa where he soaked up a long belly rub.

Yesterday, after eating breakfast, Harley died suddenly. Though Edgar was rushing to try to save him, it was too late. He died far too young, but he died, comforted, in Sheryl's arms.
We buried Harley here at our farm alongside our own pigs: Lucille, Miss Piggy, Sniffer, Arnold, and Ashley.
Harley rests in peace in our pasture of dreams.

Suiey the Warthog--The Closet Organizer

Those who do not share their homes with a warthog may just not understand that, as housekeepers, warthogs tend to have OCD--Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My friend, Carol, of The Tusk and Bristle Pig Sanctuary, certainly can attest to the fact that warthogs fashion fastidious domiciles.

When Carol went outside a few days ago to feed her sanctuary pigs, Suzie the Warthog, who is living inside with Carol and her husband for the winter (Suzie's bristley coat is much too thin to keep her toasty outside in the winter elements), offered her housecleaning and organizational skills.

First, she sauntered into the bathroom, sniffing the edges of the toilet and sink with her keen nose--checking for any noxious odors. She stuck her head in the shower, gave it the sniff-test, and declared all satisfactory. The loo must have met Suzie's approval, for, in seconds. Suzie whipped right around and trotted furiously down the hallway toward Carol's closet--the clothes closet would stand the real inspection, for sure.

According to Suzie. Carol's closet needed a serious makeover, and no one was better equipped to handle the job than she, a fussy African warthog. She set to work with a vengeance, picking up a smelly, discarded sock and placing it inside a shoe, which she tossed under a chair. At the back of the immense, walk-in closet lay a couple of extra pillows, which Suzie easily dispatched to the middle of the floor--they would make a good bed after she had finished rearranging everything. And a blue-plaid work shirt definitely didn't belong hanging so high with its shirtails nearly touching the ground. That would have to become more easily accessible because workshirts needed to stay handy. So, Suzy pulled the shirt to the floor and nosed it alongside the pillows. Then she grabbed the next few shirts in the line-up and tore those off their hangars, too. There--that was better--one didn't need to stand on tip-toe to reach the shirts.

Suzie wasn't particularly discouraged by the chair taking up space in the closet. She rammed it with her hard head onto its side atop the pillows, and then turned to the cubbyholes holding stacks of neatly-folded jeans. They, too, would have to come down, Suzie decided--to a more easily accessible area of the room. Afterall, what was the sense of having a closet full of clothes if they were always out of reach?

In less than 45 minutes, Suzie had "organized" Carol's closet so that all the accessories--shoes, jewelry box, scarves, farm boots and other work clothes--became much handier. Silly humans--putting stuff so far out of reach.

Later that afternoon, after Carol had come in from doing chores, she noticed Suzie spread out, asleep in her leather chair. "Boy, Suzie," Carol laughed, "You think you had a rough day?"

Suzie's eye cracked open, she stretched, and yawned. Cleaning up a human's messy, unorganized closet was, indeed, tiring work, but sometimes a warthog just hds to do what she had to do.

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.

The Dining Spectacular at The Tusk and Bristle

So, little did I realize while Carol Eiswald, owners of The Tusk and Bristle Pig Sanctuary, was showing us their animals last Sunday that her husband had another treat awaiting us.
Up to this point I thought our visit couldn’t possibly get any more entertaining, what with Suzy the warthog nuzzling me with her soft nose and with the beardies snouting in on everything. Just when I thought I had experienced the best of the best, the Eiswalds put a bigger, grander maneuver into action.
I must say: both Edgar and I were stricken still as moss by the sight.
Before even Edgar or I could hear the droning of an ATV hauling a mini-manure spreader-like contraption behind it, the pigs heard it and recognized it immediately as their ticket to food heaven. That’s right. Though the Eiswalds have a couple of ATV’s, the pigs know the sound of the particular one that delivers their afternoon produce from the local grocery stores.

Four days a week Jim makes produce runs to four different large chain grocery stores. Sometimes he’s driving in two-foot drifts; other times he’s racing to pick up the next load of donated produce before it wilts and begins rotting in the summer’s heat. Either way, the round trip turns out to be 75 miles. But when he rolls into the driveway, most of the pigs sense he is carrying a load of goodies. After the Eiswalds go through the produce to make sure no plastic or other inedible material is amongst the food, they load it into buckets, taking a couple of bucketsful and dumping the produce into the ATV’s spreader. Then, Jim climbs into the ATV and enters the pens.
And the pigs begin to assemble like church-goers on their way to communion.

Edgar and I stood transfixed as Jim shouted from his ATV, “Here we go! Watch them come and get it!”
It was a show unmatched by any in Las Vegas. Before Jim came with the produce wagon, we had been standing in the middle of a several-acre pen. Suzy and the beardies were snuffling the ground, and a few pot-bellies were hanging around the area. But when Jim shouted for us to watch, it was only a few seconds before we witnessed the showstopper.
One by one a pig came into view: one from behind a tree stump, another from behind a bush, a few stepping from a Quonset hut. Taking it all in, my head was spinning like Linda Blair’s from The Exorcist. To my right marched Miranda, a huge white Yorkshire pig, and at her side high-stepped a medium-sized pot-belly pig. Farther in the distance I could make out other pigs, some with long snouts, other bristly, red-haired things, strolling toward us. To the left came another group of pot-bellies, and among them a spotted, long-haired, wattle-throated Kune-Kune, said to be the kindest miniature pig alive. I whipped around, hearing footsteps behind me, and a large black farm pig named Bohdan trotted past, eager to claim his head of lettuce or, better yet, a banana.
As nearly a hundred pigs gathered, they all headed, noses pointed into the wind, toward the ATV and its wagon spewing goodies. No fighting over competition for food ensued. There was no squabbling, bickering in pig language something like, “Get away! The apples are mine. YOU EAT THE CAULIFLOWER!” These pigs had table manners far nicer and cleaner than many humans I’ve seen eating, including myself.
For the umpteenth time that day, my hands flew to my mouth. “Look at them all!” I gasped.
“Holy cow!” Edgar said, his mouth gaping. “I never saw anything like it!”
I couldn’t help thinking about how different this pig feeding was from people feeding, say, at the local restaurant. Sometimes, when we eat out, I can hardly hear myself think, let alone carry on a decent conversation with my company. People are laughing, talking loud to each other; they’re yelling into their cell phones; kids are screaming, demanding attention; music is competing in the background; and plates and dishes are clanking; all is noise and chaos when humans gather to eat.
Not so with these pigs. I was amazed at how orderly they lined up across from each other at the line of food dropped onto the ground. I was awe-stricken at the quiet, except for the contented grunting from the farm pigs as they chose which of the produce to taste. Ordinarily, I would have expected complete confusion and battling among creatures usually thought inferior to us humans. But these pigs exhibited manners only taught by the likes of Henry Higgins. Miss Vanderbilt, herself, couldn’t have done a better job though, I must admit, the pigs had no tables upon which to put their elbows.
Time after time Jim hurried back to the barn to load up another batch of goodies, and time after time we watched in awe.
Such a complete mix of animals eating alongside each other was enough to make me think about how careful most humans are about the company they choose. But the pigs knew no discrimination. Queuing up to the “plates” were pigs huge, and alongside them were mini pot-bellies. The Russian wild boars and Eurasian boars and red boars gathered amongst the farm pigs and the Kune-Kunes. What a delight to witness.
It just wasn’t fair, I reasoned, after the pigs had eaten the last of the bananas. Some were even walking away with sweet red peppers in their mouths. It just wasn’t fair that I could only witness this once in my life, yet the Eiswalds could enjoy the spectacle every day of the week.
No—it just wasn’t fair, I decided as a pig walked past me with half a cantaloupe in his mouth. I smiled and gave Carol thumbs up--in stereo.

The Wonders of Warthogs

Many years ago while visiting the San Diego Zoo, I had the sudden urge to jump into a wild animal pen and cozy up to the critters, who, to my mind, exuded the most vibrant personalities, curiosity, and quirkiness. I wasn’t particularly interested in the monkeys, who, between tagging each other over the boulders, hunkered down to play with themselves or scratch fleas on another’s back. But, at this particular animal pen, Edgar almost had to hold me back from jumping amidst them.
The critters inside were African warthogs.
With faces full of bristles, over-grown side-burns, and knobs and tumor-ish growths all over their faces, anyone unappreciative of porcine particulars would have thought them hideous, deformed, entirely un-handsome. But I, with my penchant for anything swiney and bristly, became immediately enthralled with them. What creative force could have dreamt up such a fantastic creature proportioned so strangely, out-fitted with a cacophony of facial structures: thinly-sparsed, stringy hair, four knife- tusks, and various shapes and sizes of “warts” that, considered together, most humans would only regard as unfashionably eclectic? If ever, during the formation of the world’s creatures, God or Goddess had a chance to flirt with surrealism, hog-architecture became that moment. To me, a warthog reflects its creator’s humorous, thoroughly extreme, side. After designing more conventional creatures, the Goddess must have yawned, taken out her Bohemian headdress, and created, to my delight, the warthog.

While Edgar strictly forbid me from climbing into the warthog’s pen that afternoon in San Diego, I had never forgotten that feeling of synchronicity between the warthogs and me, for while I had no compelling physical excesses as did they, I certainly was non-traditional in my thinking and sometimes extreme in my behavior. People, similarly, tended to be either attracted to me or repelled by me. And how fitting was their physical design for such creatures that seemed, like me, at once quirky and lovable, reflecting intelligence and inquisitiveness alongside athleticism and laziness. Their looks and their personalities matched like stilettos with a mini-dress. The odd-looking warthog seemed to teeter, as I observed them in their relationships with each other, between pushiness and acceptance, friendly nudging and bad-ass attitude. They were, at once, schoolgirls and gangsters—demure yet ruthless. They were moody: ferocious one moment, playful the next. They looked like animals yet bore (excuse the pun) human traits. They reminded me of me; therefore, I loved them.

Last Sunday I finally got my chance to converse with and experience the aura of, not only a warthog, but also a whole range of other swine species: Bornean bearded pigs, Russian wild boars, Eurasian boars, red boars, pot-bellies, and farm pigs. Amidst this swinal throng I was the Wizard of Oz’s Dorothy enjoying Munchkinland—twirling and swirling amongst the pig populace, laughing and singing amid the fantastic landscape of porkers, totally enthralled in this newly-discovered pigdom..

I was fortunate enough, years ago, to have become friends with Carol Eiswald, who, together with her husband, Jim, have their own private pig sanctuary, The Tusk and Bristle. The Internet has a way of connecting like-minded people, and pig people tend to seek each other out. Through numerous emails, Carol and I became friends. When Carol sent me photos of Suzy the warthog lying stretched out and asleep on one of their living room’s leather chairs, I knew I had to visit--my big chance to cavort with a warthog. I couldn’t wait.
Edgar and I arrived early this past Sunday morning, and Carol and I hugged at the airport as though we had known each other for a century. We drove to their sanctuary, and I was so excited to meet Suzy that, like a little kid, I could hardly stand still. I was close to peeing myself, I was so ecstatic to be in the midst of such company—human and pig. Carol finally asked if I’d like to meet Suzy.
“Are you kidding!” I said. “I have been waiting years to meet your warthog.” Y
Carol smiled, the large kid hopping at her side. Then, she pointed a finger at me. “I’m warning you; you’re going to get muddy. Suzy is in this pen over there with her cohorts, the Bornean bearded pigs, Tobias and Ellie Mae.”
We walked into the woods surrounding their home. I said, “Will they come to us?”
Carol laughed. “Oh, I’d say so. They enjoy people. The beardies can be a little rough, but all three are exceptionally sweet.”
The Eiswalds have adopted and rescued approximately 100 pigs of varying breed, and they roam their wooded property above Syracuse, New York. Miles of fencing run through the 35 acres of piney forest, some separating the more aggressive pigs from the more mild-tempered ones. I couldn’t see where one pen ended and another started because the fencing followed the natural landscape amidst the pines, hills, and brush. No rectangular pens under the scorching sun existed here. All was integrated into the environment. Except for the paths created by the food-bearing ATV’s and those used by the Eiswalds to visit their pigs several times a day, one would have thought she was simply hiking somewhere in the Poconos.
Carol and I walked through a gate, and Carol called out, “Suzy! Where are you? Soo-zy! Tobias! Ellie!” I peered through the brush for a glimpse of the wild pigs, and I didn’t have long to wait. Suddenly the bushes off to the left crackled, their branches breaking under the force of something terrific, and Suzy the warthog came galloping up to us.
My hands flew to my mouth, eyes wide open. She was beautiful! Though she was hardly larger than a spaniel, her body was solid muscle, with that sinewy look of a hardened Olympian. Yet she was petite, delicate-looking. She had tiny, goat-like feet, very nimble and quick to navigate the rocky ground. She had hardly any body hair except for a bristly mane—of sorts—that was gray and resembled a teenager’s mohawk. But it was softer, more sparse and flowy that a guy’s hair-strip. It started right behind her head, continuing over the top of her body, finally disappearing at her hind end, where it transitioned into a two-foot long bare tail tipped with a pouf of hair.
Together, Suzy’s face and its matching personality truly bowled me over. Even though I had seen warthogs before, I hadn’t seen them up close and personal. I was about to experience a lifetime of entertainment in just a few minutes. After Suzy greeted her human mom, she trotted right over to me. Suzy was no shrinking violet when it came to welcoming strangers. I squatted down to meet her, and she pushed the beardies aside, skittering to a halt right in front of me--nose to snout.
“Oh, wow!” I laughed, steadying myself against a nearby tree. I was speechless. Suzy’s enthusiasm had almost knocked me over. She continued to smell and poke my face with her petite snout--friend or foe here? she had to be thinking. I was so flattered; she thought I was just as special as I thought she was. I sensed it within her intense curiosity with me, her need to really “get in my face,” and her desire to stay, planted, at my side. Suzy liked me.
I, too, probed her face as a blind person would, for Suzy was a very tactile, palpable being. Just seeing her and observing her behavior couldn’t explain her entirely. I had to touch her face, run my hands all over jaws, snout—everywhere--feeling the flatness of what we’d call her forehead and down the length of her nose. I clasped her tiny, feminine ears and stroked her five-inch tufts or beards on either side of her jaws. She was a living work of art and her creator the most imaginative of artists. Totally awe-stricken, I felt the tiny bumps I supposed to be her “warts” that were beginning to erupt all over her nineteen-month-old face.
I gasped as Suzy snuggled my neck. She made very tiny chirping noises that sounded much like a baby raccoon’s, and those chirps were very quiet, as though she were thinking and analyzing me and talking to herself about me. I put an arm around her neck and held her close, whispering sweet something’s in her ear, and I marveled that this wild being was accepting me as a friend; she was trusting me to be kind to her. And though her eyes were smaller than those of a farm pigs’, I recognized the human element in them--even in this wild thing--that I had long ago recognized in the domestic farm pig.
Suzy didn’t have me to herself for very long. Tobias and Ellie Mae, the bearded Bornean pigs, wanted in on the deal, and they weren’t nearly as delicate as Suzy was in their greeting, even though I would not have called Suzy’s introduction all that restrained. The bearded pigs had the perfect handshake with their ten-inch snout. Together, both Ellie Mae and Tobias said “Hello” in their own way, with their long snouts sporting beards the likes of Santa. The ant-eater-like noses were checking me out everywhere: my jacket pockets, my face, my knees, my shoes. They planted dabs of snout-mud all over me, but I didn’t care. They were hardly content to sniff my face and have it returned with a simple hug and pat on the head. No--the beardeds were as athletic and lithe as Suzy, but even though one was a female, the overall impression I had was that they were not nearly as feminine and soft-hearted as Suzy. Even Ellie Mae was pushy, nosing my arm as I tried desperately to take Suzy’s and Tobias’ pictures. Every time I thought I had a good portrait shot of one of them, one of the beardies nudged my arm and ruined the picture. But they were having fun with me—probably sniffing out my own pot-bellies from home and our cats and horses, too. To them I was an interesting mélange of scents.
After the formal introductions to Suzy, Tobias, and Ellie Mae, the seven of us went on a walking tour of the sanctuary. Suzy and the beardies followed us like dogs, trotting alongside as we went from one pen to another visiting all kinds of pigs, from pot-bellies to huge farm pigs to other breeds of wild pigs. What amazed me, too, was how well all the different breeds of pigs got along together. I didn’t see any evidence of porcine racism. Of course, some were slower than others, and Suzy checked everyone out as soon as we entered another gate. But we heard very little fussing between pigs, and when we did, it qualified more as a moment of irritation than any kind of real battle.
Before we knew it, one hundred pigs trailed behind us, aside us, in front of us--some walking, others trotting. We were as much entertainment to them as they were to us. And I felt a curious sensation that I had felt once before while scuba diving in Grand Cayman. This same feeling of oneness with the pigs had gripped me before while diving with a huge school of horse-eye jack. At once, while I knew I was different from the fish, I felt as though I was accepted as one of the school. Here, too, though I knew I was different from the pigs, walking amongst them, I felt like one of the herd. On our walk through the sanctuary, there were no distinctions between humans and pigs. We were creatures simply on a hike together.
What people who are not used to the company of pigs don’t and, possibly, can’t understand is how human-like these animals are. Because pigs have the intelligence of a three-year-old child, they are able to express emotion that people can understand—“speaking” in over 32 vocalizations. They can be shrewd and are easily capable of out-thinking a dull-witted person. Readily they engage a person in play and have a sense of timing that compares to a good comedian.
What is most human-like, however, is a pig’s eye. Every person should look a pig in the eye, and that person will be forever changed. In that eye resides honesty, questioning, evaluation of the thing being seen. The eye cases a person’s motives and sums her up fairly accurately and just as quickly. The eye is kind, but like a human’s, it can be a bit suspicious until it makes a discovery either way. Long lashes border the eyelids as the eye itself turns, darts, stares, and evaluates within its socket, the whites of the eye revealing emotion itself. But if a person stares long enough into a pig’s eye, she will see an individual there in the iris, in the pupil, in the closing and opening of the lids, in the flash of the white. She will recognize an intelligent, perceptive, friendly being within the orb
She will see the human within the animal.

I will never forget my experience at Carol’s The Tusk and Bristle. Though the farm is not open to the public, I was fortunate enough to meet many of its guests, the most captivating of whom was Suzy.