True Animal Stories ~ From Serious & Silly to Simple > 3 Book Box Set

by Ann Patty

  Toby is Ma's pride and joy. A humane society find, he came home to live with us as a three-month-old. He was and still is a wild child. He lives to play. He insisted on accompanyin' Ma every time she went inside the pigstall. In fact, Toby would whine if left out—and given the chance, he'd climb their gate to get in. For that reason, the gate is wrapped with no climb chicken wire! Toby always crawls inside the Pigloo, which used to belong to him except he never used it... now he does cuz pigs come with it! The dog has never slept outside a night in his entire life since comin' home here. Toby is spoiled beyond belief—even more than JD and I. After all, he gets to run the farm and is in and out of Ma's house anytime he wants. Now Toby thinks he owns the pigs. Well, he does: he has taken it upon himself to be a pig-sitter extraordinaire.

  I can't see who starts it, but when the grunts start, they escalate to loud and the excitement grows. The next thing I can see from my limited view is the pigs and Toby playin'. When the squealin' starts, that does it for me. I run out of the stall and go to the back fence of the arena, with my favorite foot cocked up and all. The pig playpen goes on for a bit until Ma comes and checks on me. Toby stays with Ma at all times. I think, though, by the looks of it, the pigs are adoptin' Toby as their surrogate mama swine. One day, horrors of all horrors, I even witnessed one tryin' to suckle Toby's underbelly! But Toby was clueless cuz all he had on his mind was playin'.

  Two Weeks & Who's Counting? ME!

  The last couple of days have been sunny and warm. Things are growin'. I can smell that oh-so-sweet pungent of fresh spring grass which captures my attention. My dearly beloved alfalfa is still favored, but given the choice, the new green grass wins hands down at satisfying my appetite.

  One day, Ma introduced another angle of pig awareness: she casually opened our front stall doors so we could escape. Our open doors led right into the barn aisle—a passageway to an eatin' nirvana. If I wanted to taste that aroma, I had to step into the aisle which led directly to Ma's backyard pasture. Even though mouthwaterin' forage lay beyond, I fretted. I couldn't go beyond the open gate.

  Oh, how I wanted to. I approached and then hightailed it back into the paddock. When JD nonchalantly drifted to paradise pasture, I really stomped up a storm. I was jealous. I got upset. I was afraid. I wanted to follow, but my brain wouldn't let my feet free. The door was open wide. Disturbed with distress, I paced from my open stall door into my paddock and back. Twenty minutes later I stepped free. I looked over, oh so briefly, to the pigstall—and then I ran to the adjoining pasture where JD was immersed in clover.

  Sometimes Ma is pretty smart. She knows me better than I know myself. Simply openin' the door to let me make up my own mind was a good way to help me teach myself. For the next couple of days, the stall door opened, luring JD and me to Ma’s growing lawn pasture. By the third day, I walked calmly along with JD, past the pigs, to the lawn, with never a hint of hesitation.

  Counting More Days Later

  I'm a part of Ma's Pavlov pig research. Yesterday, and again this morn, Ma has put my goodie bowl right outside in front of the pig palace. Maybe she thinks I'm ready for this experiment. I'm not—but gosh, darn, I wanted that food so bad, so I went for her bait. Besides, Toby always goes an' eats my food if I don't!

  Last night their porky playin' didn't seem so bad. The pigs were even runnin' around squealin' as Toby wrestled with them, once again. I actually got ready to run, but froze. I had to look. Toby was bouncin' about with those pink pork chops. Actually, the whole lot of 'em was nose-pokin' each other while playin'! Pig pokes—now there's an amusing concept from the three-ring circus!

  Okay, admittedly I got curious. Toby is completely taken if not enamored with the little porkies, so I decided a better look was in order. I actually watched them romp the stall walls for a good while and I didn’t even flinch. My cherished rice bran oat bowl was placed at my feet. It was beggin' to satisfy my appetite. So I complied. After all, it felt almost like party time: good food; ridiculous entertainment; Ma relaxin' as she leaned on their stall gate... of course keepin' her eye on me.

  Whenever the day turned warm, the pigs got to go outside in their pig playpen. Ma would put hay right outside the pigpen for JD and me. Of course, JD had no hesitation. Me, oh I stayed the distance. I'd snatch some hay and retreat to eat. Then repeat. Ma would come out to me, say nice things, and I would return to the hay pile with her. Sometimes, under distraction, I'd actually obey her kind words.

  The hay was up against the field fence and poked through to the pigs’ side. Naturally they got curious and came over to pull the hay through the fence. JD, Mr. Fearless, didn't take to kindly to the runts stealin' his hay. He pinned his ears and actually stomped his feet at the foot of the fence. The pigs didn't even budge. They are so used to Toby roughhousing them that now they are desensitized. Unfortunately, I am not so desensitized.

  No other expectations were put on me durin' the pig introduction period—mostly viewin' opportunities set up by Ma. I guess Ma just figured I had enough to figure out so why add anythin' else to my plate. She didn't even ride me. Like I said, Ma is patient and persistent, and—for a human—exceedingly kind, if I say so myself.

  Still March

  Ma said to me this mornin', "Lily, that was a breakthrough!"

  Well, yes: I very willingly let Ma put my halter on. I even let her lead me out of my stall into the main aisle. Then I even readily followed her around as she put my bowl down right outside the pigstall. And I followed her over to the goody bucket so she could scoop some more out for moi. Then I actually—oh, yes, really I did—followed Ma back to my food bowl where she dumped my rice bran mixed with grains into the pig-positioned eye-viewin' table set for one. And I dragged the bowl away with my muzzle. After all, I don't want to dine with swine. And so Ma's foot pushed it back. And I dragged it back again. And there was Ma's foot pushin' it back. We played this game until we both compromised on middle ground.

  The pigs were actually sleepin'. Should have been no worry to me. But I might be turnin' a corner. Havin' them walk around oinkin' is almost better now. At least I can see them and know of their position in comparison to mine. Yet I need to keep a fair distance at all times, ya know.

  Today, Ma was able to step back with slack in my lead rope. I'm insecure—I'll admit it. Ma dropped my lead. I'm okay if Ma is there with me, but she had stepped ten feet away to get and bring JD some hay. He wouldn't stop bangin' his foot on the metal gate. He wanted goodies too. Ha! JD is trainin' Ma to appease his appetite with his hoof-clangin'. Since it drives her nuts, Ma gives in and it’s "Pavlov, move over. You have one more experiment: a human in the makin'!" Anyway, once Ma stepped outta my comfort zone, I was right at her back—I mean, we all need our security blankets, don't we? Then back to the food bowl we went, to watch more pig TV while I fussed with, then gobbled up, my food.

  This early evening, Ma let us out the front door to go mow her lawn again. Proudly I stepped out and got my green grass reward. Ma kept us out there till dark. When I heard her hands clap, which is our dinner bell, I was off. I cantered back to the barn first! Even before JD caught on it was dinner time. But without my bud, when I got back, I stopped still at the barn entrance. I froze to ponder my options for escaping the distance of fifteen feet to get into my stall.

  Dang, if those pigs weren't starin' me down from behind their grate. JD passed me up and went into his stall. Ma closed his door so I could not go in there with him. Oh, gosh, oh, my, oh what do I do? Ma was shakin' her head with a smile as she walked to me. "Follow me, Lily." And I did. No halter on and no lead rope assistance—I walked at Ma's back and surrendered to my stall. All was well again.

  Sortin' Out Pigs

  Sorta Still March

  All was too perfect. Early Sunday was a go-to-church-quiet type of morning. Steppin' out of my stall easily, I ate from my breakfast bowl while watchin' the porky kidlets sleep. I guess I was a nonevent today because after a bit Ma put me back in my stall. There I plucked at my hay and
gazed over my wall to see the porkers wake and walk about.

  A short bit later, Ma's farmer friend arrived. He backed his pickup into the barn aisle. He brought out some sacks of feed and gave Ma some more pig education. "These two sacks are for the older ones. We'll need to mix the bags together. When they are young they need protein to build their muscles. As they get older, you don't want the pigs to build too much muscle from the protein. It causes their gait to get stiff and choppy." Huh. Who would of thought! What's he talkin' 'bout anyway? I was about to find out.

  After the feed bins were filled, the farmer and Ma returned to the back of his truck and pulled the truck gates open. A large silver metal box with holes was peekin' out. I watched, ears pricked of course. I smelled somethin' amiss. The farmer opened the box. Holy Cow—or rather Pig! These weren't exactly cute little ones; they were much bigger than the others.

  The farmer pulled one out as Ma held off the other one. It started screamin' to bloody heck. Its vocals spiraled up to pitches that pierced the veil of the earth's atmosphere and beyond. My freak and flee jumped in and I ran into the back paddock. There I blew and pranced and tossed my head about. And, oh, yes, I watched the ten-minute vigil continue on. Darned if it weren't a pig swap!

  These two larger hogs were replacements because the others were now going to live with the farmer's grandkids. These two new ones were a pair of Pinto Pigs, being both black and white. With all that screechin', even JD retreated with me—although his flee was a saunterin' sort of walk. I guess his twenty-three years have tempered his reactions to upsets. Then, together we approached the barn again and stood at the backside lookin' in. Curiosity might kill a cat, but I'm a horse. I'll get over them too, I suppose. So much for the church-quiet morning.

  A Few Days Later

  The S–H–*–T word flew out of Ma's mouth the other day. Apparently these bigger oinkers bite. I haven't gotten the nerve, yet, to stand too close to them when they are in the pen outside. I'm workin' up to it though. I am naturally curious; my feet tend to inch me forward a tiny bit more each time I gawk.

  That buffoon Toby has such a fetish for fiddlin' with pigs, even this new pair. Toby never quits. He is like Ma that way. Now a new herd is just another reason for him to play. Them aren't Piglets though—they're about two-thirds of Toby's size and probably weigh the same as he does. In a few weeks they'll surpass Toby in height and weight. Of course, stature never stops that Toby dog from any playmate. Mind over matter I guess. He'll train them up right.

  Toby even managed to get the last Piglet to bark at him. No kidding! Whenever the Piglet encountered Toby, it barked at him. It got to be each and every time Toby came into their pen. Ma thought it was strange, but found out later that the young will learn to mimic other animals. Young piggies pick up on the sounds and gestures of other animals they spend time with. So, I'll be darned if that one runt didn't greet Toby each day with a bark when he came to rouse them. Yup, Toby barked in play seldom—but even so, those runts picked up on it right quick.

  These Pinto Pigs have almost human eyes. Creepy. And they route and scout their snouts about, hoeing up the barnyard. Ma is concerned they will rut their way free; she boarded up the pig quarters outside around the bottom of the fence and then staked it all up tight.

  The Pinto Pigs have lower vocals. They grunt at every little incident. Grunt. Rut. Grunt. Food. Grunt. A pine cone. Grunt. Toby. Grunt. Human. Grunt to grunt. Golly, you'd think they'd tire of their own voice box. Toby has not taught the Pinto Pigs to bark yet. For the most part, Toby barks not much—only when the kids runnin' down the street taunt him to run the fence line. Then Toby runs the fence line with them, barkin' happy hellos all the way.

  These Pinto Pigs move like prehistoric dinosaurs. Not like the flop-about flexible and whimsy walkin' of their former much younger cousins. Maybe that is what that pig-farmer friend was talkin' about when he was explainin' his pig feed 101 theory to Ma. Unless the feed is just so, their gaits get choppy, not smooth. Good feed apparently gives pigs an elegant waltz-like walk. Wow, another new appreciation here for pig nutrition. But, tough truth be told: since they are bred to be a meal, most of their mass grows fast and in an expeditious time. Of course I am a vegan. Strictly grass and veggie products for me! And actually I think Ma stopped eatin' pork because of her new herd. She told one friend, "I'm losing my appetite for pork. They are intelligent, playful, and very trainable—just like a dog. And I don't eat dogs."

  Sometime Still in March

  Please, Horse God. Send me to a heaven where there are NO pigs!

  It's been two weeks off from doin' any form of exercise—until tonight. Our bellies grass-full from Ma's backyard, she scooped us up and hitched me and JD together. JD got the saddle. I got led alongside. Then off we went down our road, as easy and carefree and peaceful as possible. Until I left my comfort zone and got halfway to the pig penitentiary.

  My feet froze to the ground. No, it was not because I was so in awe of pink porky pigs strollin' the said farmer friend's fields. It was because my brain jammed into another fixation. My eyes bulged. My nostrils flared. My legs paralyzed—then stopped.

  Ma must have suspected as much. She didn't even get up-seated from JD's saddle when I stopped abruptly. She just circled him around me, almost distractin' my attention, and started out walkin' again. My lead went taut. Ha! I won, I won! Oh, no—I was jerked off balance. JD's forward march was no competition; Ma got a bit smarter and used his muscle, not hers. She used the loop in my lead and slung it around the saddle horn to yank me out of my trance. The rest of the night, I never miss-stepped or balked once.

  We went by the pig-farmer friend's farm. Best ever! If I don't mind sayin' myself. I walked with a wary eye. Ma separated me and impaired my pig vision by using JD as a shield. I wanted to fuss, really I did, but I couldn't muster it up. On down the road we went a walkin', sometimes a trottin', and that was fun.

  What is it with people and their pigs? Isn't it enough to be surrounded with pig farms at home? And yet along the road there, once again, piggies were to be found. Big, fat, round, low-to-the-ground, no-leg pigs squeaked out otherworldly pig squeals. They looked like pigs, smelled like pigs—yet they were somehow different. Ma looked to where I was gazing and laughed. "Potbelly pigs for you, Lily." And on we went down the road.

  In all, our ride was pleasant, I think—for as much as I think; I don't think much. And when I do, it is more about sensation, so I guess I don't think much! I just know when I am happy and content. And right then I was. We trotted down the lanes, which perked both me and JD up. My behavior should have gotten a double-rosette ribbon, but Ma just stroked my neckline and told me I was a good girl. "That was better than a blue-ribbon ride, Lily," Ma said. Yeah, I was good. But I have a bit of a confession to make.

  See, earlier in the day, I was a bit frisky and trotted all over and bucked up Ma's backyard and gouged it good. So she took me out to the arena and lunged me. It didn't take much to work my edge off. I was lickin' my lips wildly to show Ma how relaxed I was, just to get out of work. But, she did an extra few laps to be sure her pasture lawn would stay intact. When she let me loose, I walked like the lady I am back over to her backyard. Then I rolled myself silly. In all, it was better than an a-okay day. But I'd still prefer our barn to be pig-free cause they are always starin' at me. Do I look as funny to them as they do to me?

  Three Weeks, But Who's Counting?

  Basic Instinct. We all have it. Most of us are prone to following our DNA signals, and I'm no exception. Pigs hunt in packs. And pigs hunt for prey—and, if they are truly hungry, even for big horse prey like me. In packs, pigs can plot and surround their pig prey and use other animals as their pig platter. I don't intend to ever get on these pig terms. I will never be a part of fine swine dining, no matter how tasty I might be.

  Ma might bribe-feed me next to the pigpen. She can coerce me to her pasture lawn where I must pass a pigstall. I might have to endure ridin' by the pig-farmer's farm on occasion. And I
am forced to smell pig poop and pee and hear them oinkers oink. And, most certainly my barn is not mine anymore. Tolerate them I will—but I will never love, much less LIKE, a pig—EVER !

  That is my basic instinct—which is going to save my bacon some day from ever gettin' cornered by a porky pig pack. JD, on the other hand, being Mr. Fearless, is a brute in his own right. He'd rather just stomp the rogue runts into the ground than give up his turf. And that is his basic instinct. Ma can sit on JD with a hundred pig pack at his feet while she goes for a stompin' ride. Or, Ma can be on me and get whisked miles down the road where there is nary a pig pack insight. Given the option, which one would you choose? I choose me!