It has been a few months since I made the brilliant decision to purchase a pig for the 9-year-old Hurricane boy and 10-year-old Princess girl at the school auction. I need many things in my life, but I would not put a pet pig at the top of the totem pole.
Please, however, do not tell the Pig this.
The kids named him Valentine, thinking he was a girl only to discover she was a he, so we changed the name to Valentino, the famous great lover, which was not a bad idea until we decided that Valentino needed to visit the local vet for a little snippity-snip.
It seemed Valentino fell in love with the kid’s basketball and would literally spend hours humping along, two feet on the ball, as it rolled all over his pen. This led to great inquiries from the kids as to exactly what was Valentino doing and caused me unlimited heartburn. I told them more lies about his motives than all the combined lies I told all my high school teachers and, believe me, that’s a lot.
So, either I could become the biggest liar that ever lived or Valentino needed a life altering experience.
I’m proud to say the pig adjusted well to the procedure and does not seem quite as infatuated with the basketball as before, although old habits are apparently hard to break. The basketball has now been banned to the outside pool toy box and Valentino spends many hours staring with lovesick eyes at the object of his affection.
He’s now also gained a new name and is generally called “Some Pig” after the “Charlotte’s Web” movie where they always said, “Boy, that is some pig.”
Some Pig has also gained a few pounds. Maybe let’s say 60 or 70.
The good news is now someone in the family has a bigger gut than me. The bad news is he is too big to come in the house … well, bad news for Some Pig, not particularly bad news for me. Before this massive weight gain, he slept inside at night in the sun room. Life was grand. Now, outside is Some Pig.
Well, a few weeks ago a giant thunderstorm struck. Some Pig was most annoyed and distressed. He oinked and grunted and damn near had a hissy fit if, indeed, a pig can have such a thing.
The next day my wife called to inform me that Some Pig could not control his back legs and kept falling. Soon, after an Internet search, we discovered he suffered from, get this, Dippity Leg Syndrome, which results in temporary loss of motor coordination of the legs and is brought on most notably by stress and, get this, pigs fear of thunderstorms.
Suggested remedy: Place the Pig in a soothing environment until he mellows out.
So I get home from work to find Some Pig relaxing comfortably on the sunroom couch that once was mine, with classical music playing to “soothe” him. My wife also cooked him a home-cooked meal. He recovered mighty nicely, thank you, everyone, and was soon prancing around my sunroom like a Tennessee walking horse.
I guess I have no choice but to move. Georgia is the capital of thunderstorms. I need to move to Nevada or someplace where they don’t exist. Otherwise, I’ll need to expand my classical music collection and make room for Some Pig on the couch.
Email columnist T. Gamble at firstname.lastname@example.org.