12/08/2025
Howling with laughter. 😂
Very vaguely, I am going to tell you that the inner workings of my brain have been very swine-centric lately. I have absolutely not been considering adding another pig to the menagerie, but the past few days, while many are conjuring up holiday memories of the past, my brain has been coming to the realization that mini pigs have had an absolutely huge impact on my life.
Like, disproportionally so.
Like, should I write an entire book on Mini Pig True Crime or is that genre too over saturated?
I have just been hyper focused on how awful pigs can be but also how wonderfully pigs have impacted my life, in particular. And hopefully only.
I blame a lot of this on the fact that I am the le***an daughter of a woman who, like many in the early 90s, went through a phase where she identified as a miniature potbelly pig breeder.
In my experience, in the 90s, you either had a mini pig, wanted a mini pig, knew someone with a mini pig; otherwise, you were a nobody.
My mother, having been bitten while on the delivery end of potbelly pig breeding just a one too many times, now resents pigs with all of her heart and begged me to never get one, much less two, but, without heeding the experience of my ancestors, I went out and got some.
I didn’t want to be a nobody after all.
Pig ownership is always an adventure and I was just swiping old photos and came across a photo of the time that I thought pig ownership might also be a reason for my first felony.
It was a slightly foggy morning and I was slightly groggy. Jen and I had some sort of weird life moment where we decided quit coffee for fun (Jen has a very skewed idea of fun) so I was not as alert and clear headed and on edge I usually was when I feed in the morning.
In hindsight, this was a stupid challenge and should be done by no one “for fun”.
So, imagine my surprise when I drank a glass of water, went to feed the pigs and suddenly found that they had slaughtered someone in the middle of the night.
I was groggy, it was foggy and I couldn’t predict whatever sinister things my wife may come up with to entertain herself in the morning now that we went from straight Café Bustelo to well water. The slaughtered figure was probably male, in jeans, and thicc as a milkshake. As I approached the person, holding my breath only to let out the occasional "oh god, oh god, oh god", my stomach dropped. I tried to figure out who would have possibly been breaking into a fat mini pig pasture, one that was also filled with autofellatiating goats that choose hobbies over sleep, and, regardless of the co**se’s identity and origin story, how in the world Tammy Swinette and Merle Hoggard managed to eat an entire torso overnight.
So many thoughts of doom can go through a person's head in 20 seconds as they go to clean up their pet pigs' crime scene. Had I had a pasture full of golden retrievers and a torso, I probably would have figured someone had ditched a body and the goldens were heart broken and sad, trying to piece it back together while alerting a human. But, I am a q***r, generational minipig farmer, so, of course, I immediately placed blame on Merle and Tammy.
I am not completely sure how my q***rness influences my pig husbandry, but I am sure there is some sort of correlation that just hasn’t been studied yet. Heteronormative couples simply don’t raise pigs together. I think it must be some sort of P in V thing that just makes conception of minipig pet ownership impossible. If the wife in the heteronormative couple is even 4% bisexual, well, there’s a chance they experiment with porcine pets once to satisfy her curiosity.
At just 4%, though, she will probably settle down with a pug later in life.
Fortunately, as i got within 10 feet of the torso-less body, I was finally able to discern a discarded dog bed that Tammy must have pulled into a separate stall from human co**se legs.
Sometimes she gets irritated with him and throws a micro mini fit. I guess this was the potbelly equivalent of having Merle sleep on the couch after a scuffle.
I'm, obviously, so relieved that they did not eat an intruder but also have to live the rest of my days knowing I was ready to hide a crime scene for our porcine son and daughter, though, admittingly, probably just by letting them finish and calling in assistance from our resident vulture.
Image description: a photo of the crime scene, taken before my human sexuality tangent. There are 3 walls of an open stall. A blue bucket hangs from a blue tube gate and behind a wire fence in the stall, is what appears to be the blue jeaned butt end of a person, legs and all. It appears to be face down in a pile of pine shavings and hay.
