The Pig Whisperer
Yesterday afternoon a middle-aged man and his wife rang my doorbell. They answered a classified ad I placed in the local free weekly paper. My ad was straight forward, simple, to the point:
Gorgeous pot-bellied pig FREE to good home! He's cute! He's sweet! He's smart! He's a natural ham! Free 25 pound bag of pig food and assorted chew toys. Don't let this awesome pig get away!
I honestly thought I would be inundated with calls, at least twenty, maybe thirty, or forty! There must be a bunch of pig-loving folk in North County, I figured. But Friday turned into Saturday turned into Sunday and no one called. Not one soul. The phone rang Monday morning, when I'd given up porcine hope, and a woman with voice like sharp gravel asked if I still had the pig. Heck ya, I said, come on down!
They arrived ten minutes early and knocked first before ringing the bell. I locked Suzie in my bedroom and screamed at her to shush her barking and I grabbed Frankie's leash and ran for the door.
"Hey, welcome! Come in! I'm Birdie!" I swept my arm inside, inviting them to enter and meet the pig. "So, you're pig lovers?"
The man and woman looked hardened, sun-weary, with aging lizard skin. The man wore dark jeans under a grade-A stomach and I bit my tongue so I wouldn't make a comment about pot-bellies. He looked at me as if I were insane and he grunted.
"Well I like a little sausage. Heh heh." His laugh creeped me out, covered my arms with petrified bumps, and my eyes opened wide.
"Oh he's such a kidder, aren't you, dear?" His wife smiled in apology but I could see something strange behind her expression. I didn't know what it was.
"Well, let me get Frankie. I didn't name him that, but he does know his name. Hold on a minute."
I waved them toward the good couch and walked slowly toward the backdoor. I didn't like these two, didn't like the way the man practically called Frankie lunch, but I decided I was being a bit silly and presumptuous. I passed through the kitchen and saw the green stuffed rabbit that Frankie loved to chew, the box of milk bones I used as training treats and I almost started to cry.
"Frankie! Fraaaaaaaankieeeeee!!"
I opened the screen door and yelled for the pig. He looked at me from the treehouse window. He spent most afternoons watching cars and dogs and women with strollers hike up Hillside Street from his vantage point. He learned how to climb the treehouse catwalk the first day he arrived, followed the boys right up and in and decided the fort was really a pig sty. I couldn't argue the point. He stared at me for a moment or two then his head disappeared and I heard the clip clop of his hooves crossing the walkway, then his sleek body rustled through the lemonade berry bushes lining my hill. He stopped at the stairs, stopped and sat, didn't listen to me call his name, turned around and headed back to the treehouse. What the heck is that pig doing? I started out the back door, started walking across the lawn, but realized my mistake when Frankie reappeared outside the structure with his Harley Flame superball in his mouth. Awww. I started tearing up, wondering what kind of life he would have with Mr. Sausage Belly.
"Good Piggie! Good Pig." I patted Frankie's back and clipped the leash to his harness.
"Well, here he is! Some Pig!" I trotted Frankie up to the man and woman with a showman's grin and twirled him around. "See? He is now leash trained, I did that over the past couple of weeks. I take him out for a jaunt around the neighborhood every morning. I read on the internet that those daily walks keep a pig pretty darn fit. And hey! Watch this!"
I cleared my throat, said Frankie's name in a no-nonsense tone and then pointed my finger at his nose. "Sit."
Frankie sat.
I lifted my palm to the sky. "Stand."
Frankie stood.
I twirled my finger in a circle. "Circle around, pig, circle around!"
Frankie ran in a circle, chased his tiny tail, then plopped on his side flat on the floor with a happy goofball look.
"See? These pigs are really easy to train, smart as heck. Milk bones are his poison of choice."
The man's shirt stretched uncomfortably over his belly, and his light brown comb-over 'do shook a little as he spoke.
"Yeah, I'm good with pigs. C'mere boy." He leaned forward with an eerie expression and his wife leaned one hand on his arm as if waiting to restrain him. Frankie lay on the floor, still looking at me, ignoring the man and woman.
"C'mere boy! Stand up!" The man began to yell, moved to grab the leash. "C'mere boy!" I did a dance move out of the way, pretended not to see him lurch for the leash.
"Um, he's a little shy." I never used the word Shy to describe Frankie before, but was getting increasingly afraid of these sausage people. The woman giggled in a low earthy tone and tried to lighten the mood.
"It's been a long time since we had pigs. Not since two years ago. So Ed's a little rusty. We'll take him."
I stared at them for a long minute, freaking out in all honesty, trying to figure out what to do. I was getting attached to the pig but knew keeping him was a huge commitment. Was this Frankie's destiny? Probable cutlets on some weird couple's dinner table? I took a deep breath and let it out, long and slow. Frankie raised his head to see what I was doing.
"Well I have another person coming to look at him tonight. I'll interview him and then call you both back and let you know. Ok?" I showed them to the door.
So here I am, Friday night, Frankie and Suzie at my feet, birds perching behind me on their fake manzanita trees. The Pig Whisperer. That's me.
6:56:06 PM 
|
