Thirty Thousand Bottles of Wine and a Pig Called Helga

by Todd Alexander

  At first we tried confining Helga in a spare bathtub, but its walls were too slippery and she was desperate to jump out. Inside the shed Jeff had built us a small laundry (needless to say it was unfinished and had no appliances) so with hay for a floor and a newly purchased dog bed, Helga was pretty happy in there, but it had no daylight and not a lot of room for her to move around. We quickly developed a routine. She would messily eat her meals on the ‘living room’ floor and at the end of the day I’d let her in for playtime and to chase Leroy around a bit. Given his temperament, we were surprised this never ended in a fight. Helga loved the taste of freedom and being returned to the laundry was soon met with grunts of disappointment and protest that were loud enough to disturb our guests in the villa next door, so we moved her into our unfinished bathroom, where Jeff had recently installed a real, actual flushing toilet!

  It wasn’t uncommon to have a pig between your legs while you went about your business, as Helga soon made the space her own. Mealtimes resulted in smears of bread and peanut butter, cheese and a wide array of other sloppy mess all over the floors and walls.

  Because I was working so hard, one day I treated myself to a massage at the local shopping centre. They’re very professional but part of the treatment involves pulling down my underwear to expose my buttocks, which are so intimately connected to the muscles in my lower back. This particular day, however, when the guy lifted the towel to tuck beneath the top of my lowered undies, I heard him make this weird sort of coughing nose and rather than pulling my pants down, he did something very strange – he placed the towel over the top of them and never once massaged my glutes. It was the most disappointing treatment I’ve had there and on leaving I decided to find another provider.

  Later that night as I got ready for bed, I looked down and noticed right at the back of my underwear was a familiar snout print of Helga’s, brown and distinct.

  ‘Oh my god, Jeff, look at this!’ I said holding it out for him to see. ‘My massage guy thought I shat myself!’

  *

  Our neighbours Natalie and Andrew (with daughters Chelsea and Amber in tow), Jenny, Nat and Dan, Pete and Ange (with their daughters Tejay and Jorja) and family would drop by our place, take one look at ‘Helga’s room’ and give us a disapproving stare. But giving Helga space inside our own meant that we could bond more deeply than any other Block Eight animal and I had done before. Her behaviour was so similar to a dog’s as she excitedly ate her meal then ran about looking for things to play with. She discovered Leroy’s cat flap into the shed and then that was it, game on! Helga disappeared for a few minutes then returned with a piece of cardboard in her mouth, shaking it from side to side just like a dog. She grew bored easily, disappeared again, for longer this time, then brought a medium-sized piece of irrigation pipe into the living room. As she shook her head the pipe smacked her so she soon grew tired of that sensation and disappeared again.

  ‘Are you worried about her?’ Jeff asked after about five minutes.

  ‘A bit,’ I lied, fearing she was ripping the shed to shreds.

  But sure enough, we again heard the cat flap push open and there Helga was, bursting into the room with an enormous plastic bag in her mouth, easily thirty times the size of her and she thought she was the cleverest thing on the planet, proudly shaking it about the room with glee. We paused Netflix and waited for her to tire of this latest, very noisy, game.

  It didn’t take very long for her to come and lie on my lap, nuzzling into my hand where she eventually fell to exhausted sleep beneath a blanket we’d purchased to keep her warm (we still had no heating for ourselves). Her soft snores were mesmerising. Had she not lived with us, I would never have had the chance to get to know her on such a level. And anyway, as usual, I think I was slowly beginning to fall in love.

  When you live with a pig, the most pressing issue is ensuring she’s toilet trained. It’s one thing to live in a permanent state of renovation; it’s quite another to have it reeking of pig urine, which is particularly pungent. Thankfully Helga was very small and the volume of her business was to scale, for the time being. While Google often has the answer to any single question you can fathom (except dead kangaroos in dams), when it comes to learning about raising and training animals, you quickly discover that most of the information on the internet is based on personal experience. But everyone’s experience with animals is different. There’s no such thing as a parental bible, just as there is no such thing as a foolproof way to toilet train a pig, though I was convinced Helga was smarter than most.

  I first tried shredded newspaper. Some forums suggested it was the perfect material, soft and absorbent, and recycled to boot. Each morning I would meticulously hand-cut paper into shreds (though never in straight lines), trying to get it to a consistency I thought would appeal to Helga. During the newspaper trial, however, it wasn’t uncommon for a television show to be interrupted by Jeff running through the living room carrying a squealing piglet in his hands. A pig doesn’t like to be interrupted from the task at hand and a piglet’s squeals can be ear-piercing.

  Helga had this funny little way of grunting three times quickly to let you know she was unimpressed, a sort of warning alarm, before launching into her full volume squeal, surely loud enough to be heard in all four corners of the property. Despite our best intentions to get her onto that shredded paper every time, it soon became clear that Helga didn’t find that material a suitable enough match. Hidden puddles were often discovered, stray pellets stumbled across at inopportune moments or while friends were visiting. Her excursions into the shed, it also became apparent, weren’t just about finding a toy to play with but also about adding to her considerable stockpile of weapons of mass destruction.

  I next tried mulch, figuring the earthy smell and texture would be just what the piglet ordered. It was a marked improvement, certainly there were still a lot of misses but once every six or so attempts Helga would get it right and remember where she was supposed to be doing her business. I had read that leaving a reminder in the box was also helpful and at times she went straight to the same corner of it, but one in six was clearly not good enough odds. More grunts and squeals, more moments of Jeff running through the room carrying an interrupted piglet, followed by more encouragement from him to try another option. I’d seen pigs on television walk to the door and wait patiently to be let out to complete their business, but we had Leroy to consider and his alley-criminal past meant he wasn’t allowed outside at night, particularly when we had guests on the property. Helga would just have to get used to the concept that either she was going to be constantly interrupted by Jeff, or she’d have to work out a more practical solution.

  ‘Why don’t you try dirt in the tray?’ Jeff suggested one evening.

  Now I am not one to easily admit that someone else has come up with a good suggestion for training my pig but as the bark still wasn’t hitting the mark, after a few days I secretly replaced it with lots of lovely earth. And if I’m not one to embrace someone else’s suggestion, it goes without saying that I’m also not the kind of guy to admit that Jeff was right. I’m sure trying dirt was my next logical step after mulch and no doubt I would’ve tried it without his prompt.

  Almost immediately, it clicked with Helga. The dirt beneath her trotters, the scent of the ground, the texture of the stuff, everything clearly just felt right to her and within two days of my placing it there, Helga was miraculously toilet trained. She never once missed making it to the tray, though on occasion she overshot its edge and spilt a little mess onto the floor, but as our bathroom was still concrete she was easily forgiven.

  Like the proudest of parents, our television watching was no longer interrupted by the squeals of a determined little piglet, but now by cries of ‘Good girl! Good girl, Helgy!’ and the like – and dammit if that pig hadn’t been playing me all along and was just waiting in her own good time to get the toilet training right. Of course she wanted to do her business in dirt! That’s what nature intended and
how dare I try to mess with a millennia-old formula. The next test would be to see if she could come to me on demand.

  *

  It made practical and logical sense to have Helga spayed. In the very least, as much as I love animals, I believe it’s irresponsible to breed animals without having a very clear solution for the lives you help bring into the world. It’s not good enough to just hope you’ll find a suitable home (or purpose) for them some time after they’re born. Poor preparation led to the horrible situation with Rodney and Billy and I just couldn’t let that happen again – it wasn’t fair to them, and let’s face it, I would’ve had an emotional breakdown going through that again.

  Research also told me that sows could develop many internal issues such as cancers, uterine infections and other problems associated with hormones and of course there was also the practicality of Helga potentially bleeding around the house, on guests and around the property. Plus, unspayed pigs can be quite moody and temperamental and there simply wasn’t enough room on the property for two of us behaving the same. The urine scent of a pig on cycle is also strong and I feared this might attract wild boars from neighbouring bushland. I have read countless articles that insisted a spayed sow would make for a more reliable pet and reduce the risk of Helga roaming or wandering in search of a potential mate.

  I called our local vet to book Helga in for the operation but was told they didn’t have the necessary equipment and I would have to speak to the staff at Sugarloaf Animal Hospital.

  From the moment I first spoke to the woman who answered the phone at Sugarloaf, I knew my little pig was going to be in safe and loving hands. I was asked her age and temperament and told that one of the vets would call me back personally to discuss when the best time would be to have her spayed. Less than one hour later, Dr Alex telephoned me and advised that it was best to wait until Helga was between twelve and fourteen weeks, so we’d have another four or so to wait before she was big enough to cope with the operation.

  When the day of her procedure came, I was a complete mess.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do it,’ I suggested to Jeff. ‘I’m sure she’ll be a good pet without having her vagina carved out of her.’

  ‘You know they’re not really touching her vagina don’t you?’

  ‘Hmm, you know that’s not really my area of expertise, don’t you?’

  ‘Anyway, Toddy, we’ve been through the pros and cons,’ he reminded me. ‘She’ll be a happier animal if you go through with it now. Come on, I’ll do the driving.’

  After Mum’s cancer, we reached the conclusion that she should be closer to Jeff and me so we could help take care of her if she ever needed us. After lots of searching Mum and Dad finally settled on a house in a town about fifteen minutes’ drive from Block Eight. I’d taken Helga over to my parents’ house a few times so she was used to the car and didn’t seem to mind taking a trip. She sat contentedly on my lap, watching the world whizz by her window, often she would simply fall asleep and start snoring sometimes while nuzzling on my finger and those soft wet sucking sounds would tell me she was happy. Even the forty-minute drive to Sugarloaf proved a breeze for her – she rarely stirred.

  The Sugarloaf staff were excited to welcome Helga as it wasn’t often they saw more exotic pets, let alone had the chance to operate on one. Dr Alex came out to greet her personally.

  ‘Thank you for giving us the opportunity to show the staff a different kind of animal,’ he said as he ushered us into his treatment room. ‘She looks like a very healthy little pig, small for her age.’

  Helga was still in my hands; she hadn’t shown any need for us to put her in the cat carrier we’d brought along just in case.

  ‘I had pigs growing up in Russia,’ Dr Alex continued, ‘so I know firsthand what amazing animals they are and how easy it is to form a special bond with them.’

  The chitchat was doing its job, putting me at ease.

  ‘You need to know the risks of the operation before we proceed,’ he continued. ‘Particularly with pigs because they can react differently to the anaesthetic and it is very difficult to predict how any one animal will perform under it, or how she will come out of it.’

  I looked at Jeff and furrowed my brow. He knew my doubts were again creeping in.

  ‘Of course we‘ll do everything we can to make sure she is comfortable and the operation is a success.’ Dr Alex must have sensed my paranoia. ‘Helga looks very fit and alert and you told me how playful and responsive she is at home and all of this points to her coming out of the anaesthesia without a problem but it’s my job to inform you of the potential complications.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said and handed over my baby pig.

  ‘We’ll call you as soon as the operation is complete and again a few hours later when she is fully awake.’

  ‘Will you need to keep her in overnight?’ I asked, trying desperately to keep my voice from wavering.

  ‘That will depend on how she recovers,’ Dr Alex said, ‘but I see no reason for her not to be home with you this afternoon.’

  With some doctors, nurses and veterinarians, you can just see in their eyes that they love what they do and have no intention of letting you down, or harming your loved one. We signed the necessary paperwork and walked out of the surgery.

  ‘We don’t have to put her through it if you really don’t want to,’ Jeff said, reading the anguish on my face.

  ‘No, no, it’s the right thing to do,’ I said, trying to sound brave. ‘This is about giving her a better life and . . . well . . . if the worst happens then that is what’s meant to be . . .’

  For the next several hours we filled in time as best we could, trying not to think about what Helga was going through or how she was coping. During lunch my phone rang: it was the team at Sugarloaf. Helga’s operation was a complete success and she had woken from the anaesthetic. She was alert and they would monitor her progress over the next few hours but all was pointing to the likelihood she could be picked up around 5pm.

  A wave of relief swept through my body and I could have cried with happiness. I never expected the worst to happen to my baby pig – that just wasn’t an option – but having the best possible outcome was utter perfection.

  By the time we went to collect Helga, the staff at Sugarloaf had fallen madly in love with her. She had bonded best with the two male veterinarians, frolicked in the surgery’s yard with the other staff and generally won them all over with complete conviction. Helga’s interactions with people beyond me, Jeff and my parents were few. True, our local baker’s driver had fallen in love with her and requested to see her every time she dropped off bread, but that was about Helga’s only interaction with the outside world. I already thought she was magnetic in every way but to have that confirmed by people with no obligation to say such wonderful things about a little pig made me realise that Helga held appeal for a broad range of people.

  I began posting more photos of her on Instagram and they were viewed and liked by more people than other subjects I posted about. People I’d never met asked me to keep posting regularly, commented with real affection about this little pig they’d never met. And one of my friends in publishing, Lou, even suggested I write a book about her. I wasn’t becoming a Hollywood ‘stage mum’ was I?

  As we drove home that afternoon with Helga seemingly back to her normal self, sitting on my lap and reaching up to look out the window at the passing scenery, suckling on my hand for comfort and falling asleep to the slow rhythms of my scratches and back rubs, I felt she was ready for more interaction with the world – but first we had to keep her confined within our villa for fourteen days to allow her stitches to heal.

  Before her operation, I’d given Helga a few hours outside each day. We’d cordoned off a corner of the goats’ pen and furnished it with straw and a ‘swimming pool’ and a few toys for her to play with. She seemed to enjoy being out there, particularly in sunlight, and even tolerated Winston’s frequent head butts against her fence. The fourteen da
ys of recuperation therefore were a struggle for a pig who was just beginning to get a taste of independence, but selfishly for me they were a memorable and lovely last two weeks of indoor bonding.

  The plain and simple fact is that Helga loves cuddles. Any time we spent inside the villa without allowing her to run around our feet and sit on our laps was met with disapproving grunts. By now she had taught herself how to jump up onto the couch and while Leroy found this completely annoying and inappropriate, it meant she could bond with us wherever we sat, not just if we lay on the floor. Her routine was always the same – she liked her food served a particular way, loved milk in the mornings, wanted cuddles during lunch breaks and demanded playtime and falling asleep in between my legs of an evening. The four of us watched our favourite shows on Netflix, Leroy with one eye constantly on Helga, ready to bolt if she decided it was time to play with her furry black friend. Despite his tendency to attack humans without warning, Leroy has been nothing short of the perfect gentleman when it comes to our pets.

  Because Leroy’s fearlessness knows no bounds and he can be unpredictable, it was a pleasant surprise to watch him persevere with baby Helga, who was more robust in her demands than any other animal we’d introduced him to.

  In the mornings I used rice crackers, one of Helga’s favourite foods, to teach her to come to me on demand – a task she managed to master within three or four days. She was a cunning little animal because I could clearly see in her eyes that she knew what I wanted her to do and that she knew how to do it but this game of ‘Here, Helga!’ was boring for her and if it didn’t end with treats . . . well she’d rather be off exploring or playing in the shed, thanks all the same. Eventually though, she came more and more frequently. It didn’t work every time, but often enough to appreciate that she knew what ‘Helga! Here!’ meant and if she wasn’t coming it was purely because she was being stubborn, or had engaged herself in a new game of ‘see what’s in the shed’ or eating Leroy’s cat biscuits.