Sporky the Pig by Jennifer Ball © 1991 My pig discovered glass today. He understood that there was some insurmountable clear space which he didn’t understand, nor could he get through. Nothing more complicated than a sliding glass door to you and me, but to a pig, a trick, an obstacle that prevented him from do- ing the thing he did best: eat. As I stood watching my pig push and push on the glass and then finally move away from the door, I could see that he was pouting, pretend- ing not to care. Because he could see me but was not able to root on me (the thing he did second best), he felt hurt. So he sat down on his haunches, his usual begging position, and waited. Feeling like an unfeeling human being, I slid the door open and then quickly stood aside for his immediate take-off down the plastic runway into the kitchen where he knew his food bowl awaited him. Compared to dinner, the discovery of glass was inconsequential. I bought a pig because I wasn’t yet ready for children. I wanted something small and helpless, but something which wouldn’t require college or “quality time.” I figured, if the pig didn’t work out, we could always have dinner. That’s not an option with children. As it turns out, there’s a lot of things they don’t tell you when you buy a miniature pig. For example, they don’t mention anything about rooting. Now, most people, if they thought about it for awhile, would probably recall that pigs do indeed root. But a simple word like “root” doesn’t adequately encompass the total interest that pigs devote to the earth. For instance, a novice like I used to be might think that they only root in France when looking for truffles.And I even did research before I bought this pig. (My husband made me.) There I was with the ency- clopedias, taking down notes about their favorite foods and their favorite places to be scratched (and the favored method of preparation), but nowhere do I have any scribbled account that mentions rooting. And now, with half the linoleum gone from our kitchen, it seems that it might have been an important point to have noted. The pig farm did send us some literature, but the literature also never mentioned anything about a pig’s “airspace.” This could simply be because airspace is a much more common term in San — 1 — Diego than it is in Georgia. I my- self was unaware of the term until a friend said to me the other day that she and her family almost got a ticket over the weekend. I knew that they had spent the weekend in the desert, an odd place to attract the attention of the authorities I thought. I asked her what hap- pened. “Oh, it started with the police flying by in their helicopters, but my father told them that they were in a private airspace and had better leave.” I put the expression “private airspace” away in my brain where I store such words as “power tools,” “fecal material,” and “high-octane pig starter” (Sporky’s rec- ommended pig chow). I think of these words as immediate attention-getters. These are the kinds of words comedians use. I know. I used to date one. My friend’s father was the co-founder of a microchip company and is, consequently, quite want in a pet.” Obviously, they haven’t had a wealthy. I suppose those kind of people can use terms like “private airspace” without feeling a smart enough animal to realize this. Sporky trifle smarmy. has managed to open every kitchen cabinet “So did you get a ticket?” I finally asked, not really wanting to prompt her. despite the double child-proof locks (spilling “They tried to give us a ticket for riding quads.” food coloring all over the kitchen floor and I already had had explained to me that quads are these sort of motorized tricycle-looking then proceeding to walk through it perhaps a things. Although the tricycle ones (with three wheels) have been outlawed. Quads, logically, have hundred times) and I wonder, is it intelligence four wheels, and I suppose that makes them a little more steadfast. or simply persistence? If I had a sledgehammer “Why would they give you a ticket for riding quads?” for a nose, what havoc would I wreak? “Oh, they were mad because we were riding through a national park.” She made a tching Though the encyclopedias I consulted sound of incredible disgust. proved to be somewhat lacking in pertinent in- “Is that illegal?” I asked casually. formation, they did have other interesting trivia. “They just recently made it illegal.” (I say trivia in deference to the non-pig owner; for myself, I now consider it essential informa- “Why is that?” tion.) One source said that pigs don’t sweat and one said that they sweat through their nose. (I “Oh, they think it causes erosion.” trust the second reference: they do everything through their noses.) In fact, the reason why pigs “Does it?” have the reputation of rolling in the mud—over eighty-five degrees and they’ll even roll in their “No! When the rains come, it washes all the tire tracks away.” own excrement to cool off—is because of their limited ability to sweat. The pig farm I bought These are the kind of conversations that make me want to own a pig in San Diego if only him from recommended buying a small pool for the pig. I went to a toy store in December. (We to educate the sheltered individuals who live here that there is a big world out there and maybe got him in November.) They looked at me strangely and said that pools won’t be in until sum- they should take a peek at it (along with the dictionary). Because of this exchange, I now think mer. I mean we live in San Diego for God’s sake. What good is living in San Diego if you can’t of everything within pig reach as “Sporky’s private airspace.” For example, the vacuum cord was buy a swimming pool for your pig year round? hanging there, taunting him, in Sporky’s private airspace, so he chomped it. He has a right to an- Everyone claims (especially the people at the pig farm) that pigs are very clean animals. ything in his airspace for the simple reason that he will take it. Pigs aren’t creatures to hold back That is, I interpret, clean on a sliding scale of ten being not befouling their sleeping area and one their emotions or their curiosity. “Pigs are very intelligent,” people often say to me. “Ah!” I say being rolling in excrement. I have standards of cleanliness that go off that chart. Not befouling wisely (as I imagine Confucius might have done). “Intelligence isn’t necessarily something you my sleeping area means not eating crackers in bed. Any animal that lives to root cannot be nearly — 2 — — 3 — as clean as an animal that perpetually then align like magnets and start to go after each other, but we had them on leashes and wouldn’t washes itself with its tongue. But I’m let them. (Not till we have the video camera rolling.) allergic to those animals. So one learns My friend and I had entertained the idea that we might pig-sit for each other during sum- to accept a lower standard, and ventures mer vacations, but this put a bit of a damper on the idea. I called the Georgia pig farm and asked the occasional bath. Giving a pig a bath them what to do. I was told, “Oh, honey, they’ll go after each other, but they sure won’t kill each is an unusual situation and the people other. One might just bite a hole in the other’s ear.” When I told my friend this, she gasped. who sold me the pig don’t address it at And I can’t blame her. One chomp and there goes a significant investment. all which leads me to think that they must The pig people did say that after a fight or two, they’d be the best of friends. They just have a much lower standard of cleanli- need to learn who’s dominant. I would have sworn that it would be Sporky, but Frances was the ness than I, making it logical that they definite victor. (She’s got some significant weight on him. We keep Sporky on a strict diet -be would call the pig a clean animal, being cause we don’t want to alarm the neighbors. We told them that he’s a miniature pig, but now that pigs themselves. he’s 108 pounds—we weighed him when we were really drunk—we seem to have lied. Now The first thing to do when giving the don’t you go thinking he’s a hog—hogs are 120 pounds, thank you.) pig a bath is to close the door once he’s Eventually the pigs did six rounds. Poor Sporky was a mama’s boy. He kept trying to hide in the bathroom. The need to close the behind my legs. But hey, he doesn’t have those feisty hormones running through his body any- door is indicative of how much pigs like to be bathed. I then move the garbage out of pig reach, more and no doubt he’s wondering why.