Fact: pig don't care 'bout your opinions

I know that teacup and miniature pigs are really trendy, but I really just love pigs en général.

It's no secret here at KU that I grew up in a small town in West Virginia: a lot of my childhood stories involve fishing with my dad; when I'm drunk I sometimes slur in a few "ya'lls" and "I once seen it;"  and I once had a pet pig named Wally.

Thus, here is an ode to Wally on this most sacred day:

While I'm from a small town (think: no-stoplight, not one-stoplight small), it wasn't exactly farm country. We occasionally had chickens, other neighbors did as well. There was a man further out the creek (yes, creek) who had a couple of horses and a tobacco field or two... but no real farm-age. A few towns over, though, my maternal aunt and uncle had a pig farm. They did not live at this property, though there was a house, so I suppose it was an auxillary pig farm. Because those are things where I'm from.

As is oft to happen at pig farms: a boar from the surrounding woods got into one of the sow pens and a surprise! half-wild-boar farrow (or: litter) was born one summer. Cutest little things, a smattering of fur and stripes down their spines with spots on their little tushes. And the noses! Wet, pink noses! Be still my heart! Wally was the smallest, spottiest, stripiest of the bunch: which is to say he was the runt.

My aunt, a happy, plump woman a good fifteenish years older than my mother plucked Wally up and brought him to visit in a cardboard box the next weekend when she went to see my grandfather. I, of course, only lived a few houses down from my grandfather. I, of course, plucked Wally up myself and declared him my own to bottle feed and cherish and love and squeal over. He eventually got a little too big and my Siberian Husky enjoyed chasing him too much-- she was fast and he was slow. So he went to farm.

I don't know if you folks know what "went to farm," means... but it's not pretty.

Okay. It's gorgeous.


I truly thought this is what had happened for years. I was in college when my aunt, one visit home, excitedly told me that she had photos of Wally from the family that took over the pig farm after her husband passed away. Uhm. Excuse me?

What Wally actually did.

Turns out Wally went to THE farm. Articles are important, people. Enunciate. Especially if you've got a thick West Virginia-bordering-Kentucky accent.


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So, what do you think?