Pig Love

Taken from Lynne’s weekly column ‘Green Scene’ for the Western Mail
8^th May 2021

Pig Love

One of the lovely things about writing my weekly Green Scene column is that I am able to share the exploits of my little animal family alongside my gardening endeavors and general regard for nature.  Regular readers are familiar with the trials and tribulations of my four-legged friends and often ask after them.

Another is that the Editor cuts you some slack occasionally.

This is one such occasion – and carries a ‘sad news’ warning.

My two pet pigs, Frank and Edna, have moved on to moot in heavenly pastures.

It’s been a tough time.  I watched both of them being born – brother and sister in a litter of ten healthy piglets.  In the eleven years they generously gave me, they never had a day’s illness and filled my days with joy, unconditional love and a reasonable helping of frustration.

Pigs are incredibly intelligent, something that Frank and Edna reminded me of often.  When young and reasonably svelte, they honed their escaping skills to a Houdini-esque level.  I eventually had to invest in an electric fence to keep them out of next-door’s field.  It took me a whole day to buy it, figure out how to install it and get it working.  As I basked in my eventual success later that evening, I watched Frank and Edna go up to the low level wire and sniff it intently. Between them they then mooted up a big flat stone and flipped it over onto the low electric wire.  They sniffed it again to check that ‘the electric had stopped’ and then stepped straight over it into ‘forbidden fields.’

I have relayed the story many times and lots of people have congratulated on me on my eagerness to share the fact I was so easily outwitted by two little pigs.

George Orwell understood.  In Animal Farm he wrote, “The pigs did not actually work, but directed and supervised the others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that they should assume the leadership.”

In their early years, I would see my neighbours number come up on my phone in work and know it meant that my pigs had escaped again – usually into the lush green hay field next to their own field, but occasionally they would be seen wandering up the road like two day-trippers.  The only way to catch them was with a flying rugby tackle and then to endure the indignant piggy squealing as they were escorted back to their own field and even more stakes, wire and staples deployed.

I learned the hard way that a pig’s squeal can be as loud as 115 decibels, which is 3 decibels higher than the sound of a supersonic airliner.

When they were young, I used to take them for walks on a harness and lead.  As cute as it was, it didn’t last long. I learned long after Orwell, that pigs were designed to lead, not be lead.

As they got older and even cleverer, they created their own little wallowing hole next to their water trough. When the wallowing hole ran dry, one of them would squeeze themselves into the trough, causing the water to overflow straight into the adjacent wallow, whilst the other rolled contentedly in the mud.

Frank loved being ‘tipped’.  Scratch him behind his front legs and he would just tip over and lay down in absolute bliss, enjoying all the fuss and ear rubbing you could bestow upon him. Conversely, Edna used to be quite the worrier – she would snuffle about nearby, grunting as though complaining about Frank’s irresponsible attitude and warning him that he could be attacked by a herd of wildebeest at any moment.  They were always ‘chatty’ – pigs communicate constantly with each other, and over 20 different variations of grunting have been identified, each with a different meaning.  I would often lie next to Frank with my head on his shoulder – both of us just enjoying the evening sun, with Edna just snuffling at my boots, and keeping one eye out for wildebeest.  They would continue to grunt softly to each other the whole time.

As they got older, their snoring became quite notorious and could be heard from the footpath running alongside their field.  It transpired that ‘snoring pigs’ are actually quite mesmerising and people would stop and smile, just enjoy the simplicity of it all.  They had a regular stream of visitors, some travelling more than 50 miles, bringing veggie peelings and the adoration that they enjoyed.

I miss them terribly. The grief is raw. Hot on the heels of recovering from COVID, I feel vulnerable and bereft.  A friend said, “Grief is like glitter, you will never get rid of it totally.  It will always be there somewhere.”  Of course the magical memories will slowly outweigh the pain of loss, but not yet.

Novelist and wordsmith John Galsworthy wrote, “Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.”

Frank and Edna provided me with a framework of routine every day for eleven years.  I have lost count of how many times during the day I now think, “Must go and feed the pigs … ”

Galsworthy also noted, “The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.”

There is a small amount of comfort in his words.  Life has felt inexplicably ‘untidy’ since they left.  I feel unstitched.  As time creeps on at a sloth-like pace, the sharp shards of initial grief are giving way to that aching void of realisation – I am just not going to see them again. Not rub those perfect piggy heads, not hear those happy little grunts that welcomed me (and my bucket of food), not have that big smile put on my face by their contented snoring, not have them make a difficult day better, and not walk up to them each morning and evening cheerfully asking, “Did you sleep well, Edna? How’s your day been Frank?”

As you do.

As I did.