A Pig Memory

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The only good pig is part of a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Really.

I feel some clarification is needed for items 14-16 from my list of 100 things about me:
14. I once was bitten by a hungry pig.
15. I HATE pigs.
16. I like B.L.T.s
All you P.E.T.A. fans out there, I’m sorry. I really am, but it’s true. Pigs are only good for eating. I can see getting upset if someone fashions a fur coat out of an adorable little otter, but trust me, pigs are not worth picketing N.R.A. meetings for.

For one thing, pigs are stinkin’ MEAN! Not to mention stinky! My parents owned pigs during my younger years, so I have lots of pig related memories. I remember how we had to keep all the momma pigs locked up in separate pens when they had babies—and this is horribly disgusting—because some sows would eat other sow’s piglets. Really! I remember when I was about eleven taking a stick and beating a big, ugly sow, my eyes filled with tears because I had just found the remains of three half-eaten piglets that had somehow gotten into the wrong pen. I’m sorry to share such a terrible memory, but I feel the world must know the truth about these evil creatures. I remember a big, ugly sow destroying a little watermelon patch I had so carefully planted in a little garden by my front porch. I remember a fat, jerk of a pig named earless (she was missing part of one ear for some reason—probably another pig bit it off) traumatizing me and chasing me into the barn. But most of all, I remember The Day of the Pig Bite.

The Day of the Pig Bite started off good enough. I had camped out the night before with my friends in Girl Scouts and got to spend the day hiking, making crafts, singing songs, or whatever it is that Girl Scouts do. My mom picked me up after my fun-filled morning, and we sang along to Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth” all the way home. When we got to the farm, we took care of most of the chores without incident. I climbed over the fence of the last pigs waiting for dinner with a bucket full of ground corn to present to the hungry herd of swine. If I would have been very observant, I would have noticed that the pigs were acting more frantic than usual. They always rushed towards the corn with crazed, starved looks in their squinty eyes, but today their stampede was accompanied by high-pitched squealing. Maybe the oncoming storm made them crazy. The fifteen or so huge, ravenous sows were practically crushing each other as they mobbed around me and their supper. I ignored them—pigs always seemed to be over-reacting—and casually strolled to the long, flat rock we dumped their corn on. As I leisurely prepared to begin dumping their grain, one of the smelly beasts got tired of waiting. I slowly tipped the bucket; a sow quickly reached over and closed her jaws on my thigh. I shrieked in agony and fright and began sprinting across the pigpen leaving a trail of ground corn behind me. The pigs got what they wanted, and I got a permanent set of teeth marks on my leg. I never really liked the pigs much before that, but when Mom poured rubbing alcohol on my leg, I decided I couldn’t stand them!

I’m not sure when my parents got into the pig business, but I do know when the bottom dropped out of the pork market during my later elementary years and they sold the stinkin’ things, I rejoiced! Thankfully, the only pigs I’ve had any contact with since are the ones that come prepackaged. I get to bite them.