Esther the Wonder Pig

by Steve Jenkins

  As the day trudged on and buyer after buyer seemed less than enthused, we started to worry. But then visitor number seven showed up and she loved the house, the yard—she said she loved everything about it and thought it was a perfect fit for her. It made us so happy to know the house was going to someone who seemed so kind and who would appreciate it. All this woman needed to do was her home inspection and her financing—all standard stuff. She wanted a November closing, but she said she was flexible on that. Our closing date on the house was set for November 10, and our closing day on the farm was November 6. That was perfect: It gave us a few days’ bridge to make the move before closing on the sale. All we had left to do was the inspection, and what could go wrong? (Besides everything.) We’d been so charmed all along the way it just felt like the other shoe had to drop, and in the pit of my stomach, I was sure that would happen during the inspection.

  But it didn’t.

  Of course, we had to hide Esther for the inspection. I mean, there’s no real way to “hide” Esther, but we had to bounce her around a bit and keep her outside so she’d be out of the way. Which would be an excellent strategy, but like a kid whose idea of recreation is playing Xbox all day, Esther doesn’t like to be outside for extended periods of time. (What is she, an animal?) Esther thinks of herself as a person, and a person doesn’t want to be outside all the time. She lives in a house and enjoys her outside time, but when she wants in, she wants in. And when she doesn’t get her way… she’s vocal.

  So here we were having the home inspected, and Esther started roaring like a jetliner, demanding to be let in. But we were finally at a place where it didn’t matter—we were moving. We could breathe a sigh of relief and just let her scream. Which is not to say we were neglecting her; we just didn’t have that panicked feeling we’d always had in the past that we’d be discovered and get in trouble, forcing us to do anything we could to keep her quiet. This time, we just let her scream. Which some might say is healthy. Who doesn’t want to just scream for about twenty minutes every now and then?

  As we got into the move full-force, really boxing things up and emptying the house out, Esther started to get unsettled. If you own pets, you know how it is. Animals pick up on change. She knew something was up. It all started to happen really quickly once the house was sold. There was a clear change in her behavior. She’d look out the window and watch our every move. If we set down a new box, she’d knock it over to see what was in it. She’d scrutinize every time we were coming or going. She’d watch for people pulling up and things leaving the house. Suddenly she’d become a guard pig better than any guard dog you could ever ask for (and much, much bigger).

  This was something she’d never experienced before. Sure, she’d never had any use for that lamp in the corner, but now she’d look at us like, Where the hell are you taking that lamp? Or we’d leave for extended periods of time because we had lawyer appointments and other business taking place outside of the house, and when we returned, Esther’s typical easygoing attitude had been replaced by a curious, anxious one. She might as well have had her arms crossed, toes tapping out an angry little beat to the tune of And where were you, Mister? In the past, if she ever seemed unsettled, we’d give her a couple of mints and she’d do her thing where she sucks the floor. After a bit, she’d chill out and go to bed. But the mints weren’t cutting it that week.

  She started pacing a lot more than usual and wanted to come into our room more than ever. She would be aggressive about trying to get into our bedroom when the door was locked. She definitely paid more attention to us and what we did. And because we weren’t doing anything that seemed normal (like hanging out in the living room watching TV), she was really nervous. But we were busy! We were packing and organizing in the basement, and we still had to move a ton of stuff out of there. She quickly took note of that too.

  The house had split stairs, so Esther would walk down the first set of stairs, turn herself around on the landing, and stand there, peering down the next set of stairs at us, tossing out the occasional honk. We had to keep an eye on her because the minute she’d take one step down, one of us would have to rush over and usher her back up. That was because we didn’t know whether we’d ever be able to get her back upstairs again if she got herself down into the basement. She’d grown a lot since her last time down there, and we sure weren’t going to risk it. The staircase had open risers, so I was always terrified one of Esther’s legs would slip through the opening and she’d fall and break her legs. So one of us would escort her back up and then go into the kitchen and shake her jar of mints. That’s the Esther bell. When she hears us shake the jar, she knows to come for a mint. It has a 100 percent success rate. Just like you can immediately find all of your cats by running the electric can opener (Tuna alert!), shaking the mint jar immediately produces one very excited Esther. But it was a repetitive process. We’d get back down into the basement and start to get a groove on, thinking Esther was calm and going to lie down, but then we’d hear her footsteps. First came the steps down the hallway, then the steps on the stairs, and Derek and I would look at each other like, Okay, whose turn is it?

  There was never a dull moment. But that’s how it always was with Esther. She wasn’t always this nervous, of course, because we weren’t always packing up all of our belongings. But it wasn’t like things were exactly tranquil before. Even if I was just sitting at the computer doing something, I’d often have to type with one hand because Esther wanted to nuzzle my other hand. (Anyone who owns a computer and at least one cat knows how this process works.) We always had one ear on Esther, kind of like you would with a toddler. A very, very, large toddler who could potentially flip the stove over to get at something left up there.

  This was also the first time that we took Esther out front intentionally. We wanted to get a photo of her with the SOLD sign. Nothing terribly exciting happened in that moment, but it was exciting for us. Before then, we’d always felt the need to hide her. But that day we marched her out front, posed her by the sign, and took a happy photo to post on the page for all of her fans. It was a great feeling. The house had always been Esther’s home too (sometimes even more than it was ours), and now she was able to stand proudly out front. Sure, that’s only because we were selling the house, but so what? It was the close of a massive chapter in our life with Esther—and of course, the beginning of an exciting new one.

  I was so distracted by everything that had been going on, I didn’t even realize the date and actually wasn’t even expecting the lawyer’s call. When I saw our lawyer’s name on caller ID, I wondered why she was calling. I don’t know why, but it took me by surprise that it was a done deal and she was calling me to come get the keys. There had just been so much going on, and we had been that little engine going I think I can for so long that it was uncanny to have finally made it over the mountain. Was someone going to wake me up now? Was this all a dream?

  I felt so many different emotions in that moment. I didn’t know if I was going to burst into tears or laughter… or some kind of victorious battle cry. And since I didn’t quite know how to process the depth and breadth of my feelings, I just sneaked out of the house to pick up the keys. If closing day had caught me, a real estate professional, by surprise, maybe the same was true of Derek. And now I could give him the gift of something wonderful and unexpected by surprising him when I came home.

  In a perfect world—or even a pretty average world, frankly, but dammit, I was busy—I’d have come up with some clever way to announce that it was official, that the farm was ours. Perhaps I could have annoyed Derek with a scavenger hunt that eventually led to the keys. Or I could have pretended I’d left something in the other room and asked Derek to get it for me, and when he walked in: Boom! Farm keys! Were I the magician in the family, I could have pulled a quarter from behind Derek’s ear—only it’s not a quarter, it’s the farm keys!

  But I did none of those things. I just ran into the house like an excited idiot shouting, “I’ve got
the keys, I’ve got the keys!” I waved the keys in the air, just in case I hadn’t been clear enough with my words.

  This is what a set of keys looks like!

  Also, jazz hands!

  We went straight to the farm. (We did not pass Go; we did not collect two hundred dollars.) It was me and Derek and Shelby and Reuben. It was the first time we’d ever stepped onto the property with nobody else there. Every other time, we’d been with family or friends or real estate agents or photographers, but this time it was just us. At our farm.

  I cried like a baby. (Like you were expecting anything else, right?)

  We walked the dogs through the house and explored everything. The dogs hadn’t been there before, so this was a completely new experience for them, and you know how dogs are when they’re exploring someplace new—they’re completely fascinated. It hadn’t really occurred to me before what an amazing gift this was for them too: a whole new adventure, with so many new sights to see and smells to investigate and rooms to do their thing—it made me so happy to see the excitement in their eyes.

  We ran around as they ran around, from this room to that one, then outside and through the trailer. All we wanted to do was look at everything and explore every nook and cranny, but at the same time, the new homeowner thing was kicking in. We knew we also needed to check everything to make sure things were working properly, that nothing had been taken that shouldn’t have been, that the previous owners had left everything they said they’d leave. It turned out we had no reason to worry. Not only did they do everything they said they would, they even left us some little extras and sweet notes for us. For instance, they left us a metal cart, a replica of a machine the husband used when he worked at the railroad. When he retired, the company made him a metal replica of his machine and filled it with little replica farm animals. They were apparently giving him a little joshing about the fact that he was retiring to become a farmer—but it so happened that they put a pig in the driver’s seat. How perfect could this be? Story of our life, right? The pig was at the wheel in total control of everything. It was a perfect little metaphor for what our lives had become.

  We couldn’t believe the farm was ours. We didn’t care that the house needed work or that this thing or that thing would need to be fixed or built or painted; we didn’t care about anything except the fact that it was ours. This was so much more than we had ever thought we’d have at our age and at this point in our lives. It was what everybody wants to have someday: their little piece of the countryside, or their loft in the city, or their beach house—their little place of paradise, whatever it may be. This was our version of paradise. And we had it.

  And of course, the most important consideration: We were going to do good with it. We were going to rescue countless animals in need. This wouldn’t just be our home; it would be a home to all sorts of animals, a place where basic needs like food and shelter would be met, of course, but a place that offered so much more: care, love, appreciation, affection, hope.

  It’s one thing to set foot on your new property, in your new home, and think of all the wonders it has in store for you and your family. And of course we were feeling all of that. But it’s a whole other level to think of welcoming all these animals in need to your new home. We would be their sanctuary. We would be the light at the end of the tunnel. Animals who had been abused, neglected, mistreated—and God knows it’s excruciating to even think of all the terrible ways some so-called human beings can treat these lovely, innocent creatures—we would offer them salvation. And it was all because Esther’s story had touched so many wonderful people, people who had come together to help make this dream a reality.

  Derek and I told each other all the standard mushy things you’d think we’d say. We hugged and jumped up and down and took turns crying and sometimes cried at the same time. We were starting over, together. And it was an unbelievable feeling. As we walked the property, we kept happening across little things. We’d say, “I never noticed that,” or “I’ve never seen this part of the property before,” and we knew it would be forever before we saw it all and really got to know the entire property. That was part of the thrill. We knew the adventure and the possibilities it represented. There was so much to discover: The sky truly was the limit with this farm.

  The following day, we got the truck. Esther was completely out of sorts, partly because four of us—my mom, my stepdad, Derek, and I—spent most of that day building a fence to keep Esther in her pasture. We had to have that done before we brought Esther to the farm, and we had to bring Esther the next day because we’d planned Set Me Free for November 8.

  Set Me Free was the name we came up with for when everyone would get to see Esther walk into the field at her new home. That was also one of the perks we’d added to the Indiegogo campaign, so a lot of Esther’s fans were making the trip to welcome her to the sanctuary. And we were also having a little thank-you party for everyone who had helped us along the way and everyone who made the trip. Because that date was locked in—we couldn’t very well tell people coming here from all over that we needed a few extra days—we only had one day to build the fence. We got it done thanks to our determination and a lot of sweat, but that didn’t mean Esther was happy about being left alone all day.

  When we got back, Esther had moved her bed to the middle of the living room, the carpet was completely screwed up—folded up like an accordion—and she was lying down completely out of place (like everything else), resting her head on the newly bundled carpet like it was a pillow. I can imagine her thought process: Everything else is out of sorts, fuck it, I’m moving shit too.

  I expected to be an emotional mess leading up to (and during) the whole move, but a weird numb feeling had set in. I almost felt like what was happening wasn’t real. I kept thinking back about everything and how quickly this had all transpired, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Of course, even while mostly numb, I still had a few little moments of panic-induced emotion over the house itself and the whole scenario in general. One moment I remember in particular occurred a few days before the move. I was pulling onto our street, and got ready to make that right turn into our driveway, and I randomly thought: This is one of the last times I’ll pull in this way to go home. It left me feeling overwhelmed with sadness. The big move was exciting, of course, but before any of this had happened, we’d had no intention of ever moving!

  Before this all came about, I’d had grand plans for an addition and all kinds of renovations. The house was our first, and we’d thought we would be in it for years before we even considered moving to our dream house in the country. Wow, were we wrong. So as I pulled up and looked at the grass out front and our front steps, it just washed over me. I suddenly realized I was sobbing like a baby.

  Things were moving at such a rapid pace that neither Derek nor I really had time to sit down and discuss our feelings. That’s the downside of always just going right at it when we want to do something, I guess. It’s worked out well for us, but it doesn’t leave much opportunity for reflection. It was always What’s next? Where do we need to be? Is the lawyer sorted? Is the bank sorted? It was nothing but business all the time. And because I still had a lot of financial concerns about what we were getting into, I was trying not to let my productivity at work wane in any way. I needed to know we had a healthy cushion and weren’t running into this adventure broke.

  To be clear, things were moving so fast. As in crazy fast. The party would be happening at the farm just two days after we took possession and before we actually moved out of our house. And yes, this goes back to that issue of planning that always turns out to be a sticking point for me. We got the keys to the farm four days before we had to leave the Georgetown house, which seemed like plenty of time originally, but it turned out to be madness every single day.

  The day before the official move was the busiest. We had friends over throughout the day, some helping pack, others running errands for us, darting in and out to pick up party supplies, and helpi
ng finish up the thank-you party plans. By the time everyone went home and we had a chance to sit down, the house looked pretty barren. The rugs were rolled up, the stereo was boxed up with pictures, and many previously packed boxes were scattered on the counters and dining room table. We used a lot of newspaper to wrap breakables, so that was also littered in little piles around the house.

  Derek and I ate our dinner and watched King of the Hill on my laptop, neither of us really even talking, but both of us deep in thought. Occasionally one of us would say something, but it was just the odd question about timing: who was driving what, stuff like that, just going over details. I think we both knew that if we actually said, This is it. This chapter of our life is over, we’d both start crying. The day I cried in the car hadn’t been the only time, and I’m certain Derek cried a few times when I wasn’t around. It’s funny how we sometimes hide our vulnerabilities even though they bring us closer when we reveal them. After a full day of packing, neither of us had the energy for all that emotion.

  We never got a chance to have a goodbye toast of champagne or a candlelight dinner. It was heated soup over cardboard boxes and wadded-up pieces of newspaper—super classy and romantic. We went to bed fairly early that night, partly because we were physically exhausted, partly because the next few days would be chaos as we tried to get somewhat settled before Esther arrived a few days later.

  As soon as we got the keys, we moved as much as we could to the farm, started building the fence for Esther, and began to set up for the party. Why we thought it was a good idea to throw a party mere hours after the move is anyone’s guess. (Fine. You don’t even need to guess. You’ve surely noticed that I don’t completely think things through from time to time. Or ever.) Most of our stuff was packed, but we were going to have one more night in the house. Esther was to move the next day, and once that happened we wouldn’t be spending the night there again. It felt bizarre. The couch was gone, as were most of the other large pieces of furniture, which meant we didn’t have anything to sit on. But that was okay. Sitting on the floor with Esther and the dogs felt like we were camping inside our house. The cats were there too, but you know how cats are: They can’t be bothered with stressful things like moving or packing. (Although the boxes themselves? They love a brand-new box like you just bought them a new car. Mmmm, there’s nothing like that new box smell. It’s the damnedest thing.) Cats live life on their own terms: They just want to be fed and petted, to have a clean litter box, and to occasionally make you look right at their butthole. (Which isn’t to say there aren’t people like this too, but when all is said and done, cats are the only ones who get away with this behavior over the long term.)