The Reality of Pigs

Bill owns a large bloodhound named Rosey, or Emma or something. Despite being in open support of all things dog, I have really come to detest this animal and its whiny, insistent ways. I would show you a picture but am too repulsed by its sordid nature to risk soiling my camera with a permanent relic of its existence. Rosey or Emma (let’s call her Rosey) howls nonstop, slobbers on everything, smells like a Cro dance, and has eating habits so akin to those of  Beast in the cartoon version of Beauty and the Beast that I question Walt Disney’s originality. Overall, Rosey has proven useful in only one regard: she has exhibited, through sheer contrast, how incredibly smart Pigs are. By putting this incredibly ignorant animal next to the farm’s two pigs, Earl and Earline, I have begun to question mankind’s choice of domesticated animal.

Earl and Earline are very smart creatures  who not only respond to their names  but know how to uproot the electric fence when a certain urban rookie forgets to turn it on. I don’t want people to get carried away and start believing that I have found an Einstein reincarnation – they are still pigs and are probably best eaten with a side of toast – but I do believe that I could teach Earl and Earline the majority of the tricks you taught your beagle, and probably earn them a spot on Dave Letterman’s “Stupid Pet Tricks” segment with unparalleled ease. Everyone has seen your schnauzer jump through a hula-hoop. I think it’s time we let a pig get a shot at the big time…perhaps showcasing some ironic skill like using a grill.

Earline the Queen

Earl is first and foremost a pig

In fact, over the past few weeks, these pigs have come to be some of my best company and have been featured in more than one of my lonely photo and film shoots. Here is a link to a short movie I made for you guys featuring the pigs and some distant Angus. The film also manages to feature the incredible amount of free time I have to spend on what some people might call inanity, and I call fulfillment.  I purposely used Copeland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” in an effort to reaffirm the nobility of these creatures, as if the pig drinking out of a garden hose didn’t already drive the message home.

Earl and Earline are both great pigs and carry out their piggy duties (mostly garbage disposal) with joyous enthusiasm. However, I have developed a particular affinity towards Earline. This is probably because her pen is in the garden where I spend so much of my time, but it may also be because she is so well behaved and likes to eat beets (my favorite vegetable). [Pig Care: When the temperatures approach the mid to high 90’s it is best to spray your pig twice a day, for their lack of sweat glands makes the heat all the more unbearable.]  Each morning I get the garden hose, adequately douse Earline, pick her some sort of vegetable to eat and then make sure that there is enough mud in her pen to get her 500 pound frame through the rest of the day.  Over the past few weeks I have come to find my time with Earline as nothing but enjoyable. I don’t mind the fencing so much, I don’t mind mucking stalls or feeding the angry bull (see left), but the satisfaction of seeing a pig eat a carrot that you grew somehow makes most things right in the world. Knowing that in some ways I am as dependent on Earline as she is dependent on me is humbling and reminds me that, even while sitting in front of a Macbook eating late night nachos, I was born with the same atavistic drive to be – that although my food day to day is no more symbolic than a supermarket jingle, it still comes from the earth and Earline and I are in many ways equal members of that intricate equilibrium.

In case anyone is worried, Earline will not be eaten. Generally, animals with names are excused from execution with the exception of the pig Eugene that I have been gladly chowing on for the last couple of weeks.

Bill does have a variety of other animals, including some more amiable dogs, ducks, piglets, chickens, parrots and cats. I will fill everyone in on the intricacies of chicken and duck raising at a later date, for egg snatching etiquette requires some serious wordage. Below you will find the dog Norton, a miniature dachshund with a terrific fear of the weed-whacker.  Norton likes to eat clover, exclusively rides in the front seat of the pickup and does not like to get his paws wet if the grass is too dewy. In general Norton is incredibly out of place on the farm; he looks more suitable for a Gucci handbag than for a 4cycle engine. I only mention Norton because amongst all the gruff animals Norton appeals to my softer side, the side that applies cocoa butter after every shower. Norton doesn’t like to get his paws dirty and I, after forfeiting weeks at the beach, make sure to polish off my tan at all opportunities, well protected under a layer of Banana Boat.

Oh…I got frustrated by my poor memory so I had to call Bill: The horrific being I mentioned in the beginning  of this post goes by the oh-so-inappropriate name of “Ruby.”

Until next time…. keep the soy bacon sizzlin’.