Heather Lende
Haines, Alaska - September 4, 2000
Some pigs
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"The pig? What pig?," my oldest daughter, the mostly vegetarian asks. I explain that her father has decided to bid on one of the fair's racing pigs. "What are we going to do with a pig?" she says.
"Feed it for two months and then eat it," I tell her with more conviction than I feel.
My husband bids 140 dollars on pig number one. Afterwards one of my friends looks at me incredulously. "You're not going take that pig home are you?," she asks.
I explain that we will keep the pig in the barn with the rest of the retired racing pigs, until we kill them and put them in the freezer.
The only thing I know about pigs comes from Charlotte's Web. I've read E.B. White's classic story about a pig saved from butchering by a bright and loving spider so often I practically know the words by heart. But it's fiction.
And judging by the looks of my new pig, cute pigs must be make believe.
The Haines racing pigs weigh about 150 pounds. They have bristly little hairs on pink scaly skin, with a hooked finger of a tail poking out the back. Their ears are too big, their faces too long and their snouts are wrinkled and dirty. They snort and they don't smell very good.
Number One is staying in the pen with pigs two through six and Cinderella, who is owned by the trainers of the racing pigs, Fred and Dayna Weiler.
Fred and Dayna taught the pigs to run for Cocoa Puffs. They put on races at the Southeast Alaska State Fair here in Haines twice a day.
Two women even sang the Star Spangled Banner over the P.A. system before the racing pigs charged around the track to the bucket of Cocoa Puffs. On the last day of the fair we all watched from the bleachers as the Chief of Police kissed one of the pigs - quickly - on the snout.
It was part of a fund raiser called "Who Will Kiss The Pig?" When my son asked what it means to have the police chief kiss a pig, I told him he is very fortunate to live in a town where the chief is such a good natured person. Andy of Mayberry couldn't have done a better job kissing a pig.
The first time we went out to fairgrounds to take care of the pigs I discovered that pigs are pretty clean. They soiled just one corner of their indoor stall, and the outside yard had pig poop only in the farthest corner, some sixty feet away from their little plastic wading pool.
They have an automatic drinking water dish, but they really like splashing in the pool. I dumped out the old water and refilled it. They stood under me as poured it onto their heads and shoulders. They wiggled and did little pig jumps, squinting their piggy eyes in delight. One of them peed in the pool.
When I fed them I expected a mess. But they don't eat like pigs. They snuffled at the trough contentedly and walked away, leaving a fair amount of grain for later. When all the chores were done my nine year-old daughters nudged the pigs back in the barn.
The next time I went out to feed the pigs, I let the Miss Piggys (my new name for them - they're all girls) out into the racing ring while I cleaned.
They charged into the grassy infield, ripping it up and then rooting in the soft dirt with their snouts. They rolled and piled on top of each other. Every now and then one would remember her former racing days and charge around the ring, only to look puzzled when she found no Cocoa Puffs at the finish line.
They scratched their skin against everything, including my wheel barrow, knocking it over twice until I realized all they wanted was for me to scratch between their eyes for minute or so.
But when it was time to get back in their pen they wouldn't go. A fair groundskeeper went by on a tractor and I flagged him down. "I hate pigs" he said "I'm scared to death of 'em." When he was a kid he'd seen a movie about a shipwreck. The survivors end up on island inhabited by evil pigs that kill everyone. "Ever since then I don't want nothin' to do with pigs" he said.
I told him these pigs were great - intelligent, kind and very friendly. "Just look at them" I smiled, with all the pride of a new mother. The pigs dug their faces into the mud. He reluctantly held the gate while I coaxed them into the barn with potato chips.
On my most recent pig feeding I caught them sleeping. They were in a pile, each with a front leg draped over the pig next to them.
I still have a month to go with the Miss Piggies and Cinderella before the they become pork. In the meantime I'm making no secret of their fate. I let them know, between scratches on the head, that they are "the other white meat." I even call them "my little hams" out loud.
I'm half hoping some smart spider might hear me, and get to work. These are, after all, Some Pigs.