Hog Wild
an emily blunt rant

"You love that pig more than me!" he shrieked - accenting his drama with the obligatory door slamming exclamation mark. Technically he was right - obviously it wasn't always like that. But unlike the little pig, he'd stopped bathing, started making some odd snorfing sound when he ate, decided he was above the working sort, and had become a space invader. Cruel bitter words of a scorned ex housewife? No, just the end of a relationship - you know the signs; the telltale fights, and that blossoming distaste for his "unique" idiosyncrasies (after the initial rabid Rhesus monkey-sex stage). Now they grate upon your nerves like a Belgium on an un-tuned accordion - and visa versa.

But back to the pig - that's a way more interesting story…

I met the little pig, who was to become the apple of my eye, just as she was to become the main entree at a Fiesta-styled BBQ in a state park I frequented.

While the ex and I'd been foraging for all kinds of fruits and berries, I heard this hideous scream through the serene woodscape. Always the budinski, I went to see what could cause such a howl in broad daylight, on a Sunday in suburbia, while hundreds of families continued - obliviously - frolicking to bad FM music.

I couldn't believe what I saw. There were about twelve really drunk Latin-style men tossing a piglet back and forth (as it screamed in terror) in front of a roaring fire - one presumed a fire it was to be roasting over in a few moments. These beasts were wailing in glee each time the little animal squirmed and begged for them to relent.

I fought back all kinds of desires to start a full-scale lecture on animal rights after scanning the area and counting (at least) six cases worth of empty generic beer cans.

I had to do something. I mean for crimeny if you're going to bring a creature to your festival of ribs and brewskis, at least let it arrive de-lifed and with an apple in its mouth, or in non-guilt inducing non-descript shapes of flesh mounds - and if you come from that culture where it's got to be alive - PLEASE don't torture it.

My ex says, "Don't start. There's nothing you can do Ms. P.E.T.A." Even now, I can almost hear your mind clicking in acknowledgement we were ill matched from the get go. I asked him to get the truck and meet me on the service road just over the hill. He walked away like a bad cartoon character - slowly - and muttering something about bleeding hearts and, "Next it'll be vegetarianism" - like these were bad things.

Republican gnat.

So, I had to think quickly and assume the role of generic drunken picnic-goer. I knew I had to save that pig. She looked like she weighed about 15 pounds - tiny. Assimilating into the brood, I called to one of the drunkards to throw her to me. At this point they were trying to get a beer can to pop by placing it in her mouth. Still, they fell for it - and here came the pig. She did not weigh 15 pounds! She was at least 30 pounds and like a rock - err - boulder. After gathering up super hero strength of determination, I bolted up and over the hill like a deranged rugby player with a pinch of gazelle. The alcohol delayed their reactions just long enough to enable my get-a-way, "She's playing tag football…no she's goofing around…no she stole lunch!"

Meanwhile the ex had the truck in position. I leapt in with the still shrill-crying piglet and we sped away. No. We didn't speed away. Mr. "Can Never Bend the Law," said the speed limit in the park is fifteen miles an hour and he refused to get a ticket, or get stopped and have to explain this whole scene.

So, Braveheart is "speeding away" at mach 15 MPH as a loud, and very drunk, and progressively angry, group of men is gaining on the crawling vehicle - pig wailing away. The rearview mirror memory of this is so Ben Stiller meets Benny Hill it often still makes me have to pull over with laughter when I think of it.

Suffice to say, it was only as the running caused one of the Neanderthals to projectile puke, thusly causing a dominoes effect of venomous vomiting from the lot, that the marathon of carnivores instantly stopped - and we made our lethargic get-a-way! The pig was saved and hundreds of on-looking small children, their eyes now shaded by parental hands, would be seeking psychiatric care for years over what they'd just witnessed.

Meanwhile bizarre sitcom scene behind us, the pig literally screamed all the way home - people in cars beside us seemed to think we'd abducted someone - as the covered squiggling thing sounded not unlike a harmed child. It was a very very long ride home.

En route we passed a campy BBQ joint called "Dixie's BBQ." The ex said, "We can still get out of this…" Pointing to the restaurants ill-thought-out billboard of a robust smiling southern gal pig (complete with pigtails and the obligatory checkered apron) holding a fork and knife with her lips watering, apparently in anticipation of dining on her family members succulent parts.

I consoled the piglet from Mister Meany, and named her Dixie (admittedly this was half spite) on the spot.

Ironically, Dixie out-lasted "Husband Two" by over nine years. She had the greatest life a pig could have dreamed of. She had her own pet cat, a ritual of Saturday strawberry shampoo baths, and her own Christmas stocking. Dix grew to be an intimidating 165 pounds - she was a Scottish Hybrid (white with black dots - like a Dalmatian). She lived over 11 years, and each of those years we celebrated her "Liberation" with a "pig out" of pies and whole watermelons…I still get all teary when I think of Dixinheimer.

So, yeah, I guess ultimately I did love that pig more than him.