Pets have a tendency to ‘Hog’ all the attention

Modern life is full of stress and everyone needs at least one pet they can call their own. Personally I used to have a fat old cocker spaniel named ‘Fergie’ that kept me going for years. I also remember back in the 1980’s when it was very fashionable to own an unusual or exotic pet. First it was pet rocks, then couch potatoes, and not surprising pet pigs.

Not the barnyard variety of pigs that are full of steroids and pig pellets, but smart, table mannered miniature porkers that one enterprising Orange County pig breeder was reported to be selling for as much as $2,000 each.

Pet miniature pigs were so popular that one was even featured in a major magazine. It was reported that this pig (Sir Francis Bacon by name), was so intelligent that he would put most newspaper editors to shame. Admittedly having known many newspaper editors, I’m not overly impressed by that ability.

Anyway, it was reported that Sir Francis was not only housebroken and slept at the foot of his master’s bed, but he also had his favorite TV shows, and was even a Los Angeles Laker fan. Personally I can understand this fondness for pigs. Remember the great film about a cute little piglet named ‘Babe’ who gave an Oscar winning performance.

Growing up on an Oklahoma dry-land farm, we always raised a lot of pigs. If fact some of my earliest memories are of pigs. My Grandfather could always forecast the weather by watching how pigs wallow in a mud-hole, and I had the distinction of being one of the pioneers of modifying pig behavior patterns.

It happened this way: All pigs like to scratch. In fact if you don’t keep an eye on them they’ll scratch themselves right out of the pig pen. Also pigs scratch because they have pig lice. My brother Dillon Jean and I discovered this when we were boys. The more they scratch, the more the lean, and if anything leans far enough, it will fall over.

Dillon Jean and I tested this clinical principle out by scratching one fat old sow with a broken hoe handle. Our subject reacted as we had anticipated. She began to lean . . . it felt wonderful, the pig lice scurried under her bristles to safety and she grunted with relief. Encouraged I scratch harder until, heaving a blissful sigh, down she went.

Pleased with the result, we scratched another, then another, until every pig in the pen was lying down. If one started to get up, one of us flew over with the hoe and scratched him a little, and down he would flop. Being active little devils, we could keep a herd of pigs supine for any length of time. To us, there was no greater sense of power than seeing eight or nine pigs stretched out flat. Scratching pigs was so much fun that it soon became a daily routine.

This sport would probably have gone on indefinitely had not my great-aunt Lil found some pig lice in Dillon Jean’s hair. This resulted in a family crisis and both of us being treated with coal oil soap. After that, the magic of playing with pigs faded for us.