Savage Snout: Encounters of the Pot-bellied Kind

2: Fluffy, Brown Jell-o Monster

Julie took Pig-piglet to the mall, where he posed for photos, butt curled into an over-sized prop teacup. The photo had garnered a lot of Facebook comments. It stood out amidst the self-absorbed cries for attention. That was when I used to indulge in Facebook. I had to cut myself off and hide the innocuous-looking "F" on page 3 of my tablet. Otherwise, I'll carelessly click even though when I had grabbed my tablet for a constructive reason. Two hours later, I emerge with less time, lower self esteem and fewer brain cells. It's the flimsy replacement for high-school reunions: "Look how wonderful my life turned out." Then there are the few deranged souls, who declare: "Look how awful my life turned out," airing lengthy soliloquies full of cringeful personal details and misspelled curse words aimed at friends and family, who incidentally no longer want to be around them (They have no idea why). My finger may hover over the "unfriend" button, but I'm not deleting those nutters.  They are the tabloid magazine in a bookcase of annual reports.

When I flew from England to Cupertino, CA to visit my sister, the adorable, Hallmark-style piglet photo from Facebook was the only image of Pig-pig stamped in my memory.

However, when I first met Pig-pig, he had outgrown his cute, bunny-sized stage. He had long-since abandoned his stubby, upturned piggy-snout – a snout which Julie continued to smooch as it engorged - at a far slower rate to his otherworldly butt and sweeping belly. Strangely, his growth hormones didn't seem to flow to his spindly legs. Nature's F**k You to the pig and his potential to be a formidable predator. Instead of long, thick legs, rippling with muscle from throwing its weight around, God must've run out of pig hide, so jammed a quartet of sticks into its bulky torso. In so doing, our Lord delegated him to 'food source' - the life of the hunted, or worse, life on the farm (we all know what 'farm' entails these days). The pig tail is a joke too. Pig-Pig's tail was not the cute, curly one, depicted in children's books. It was a rat's tail, frayed at the end with straggly unkempt hair. It swung idly as he walked, perhaps useful to play tag with the flies buzzing around his butt, but it didn't extend much further than that. 

Maybe I would have warmed to Pig-Pig more if I remembered holding his apple-sized belly in my palm, interlacing my fingers between his tiny 'hoofs', listening to his baby-sized snuffs while he guzzled milk from a human baby bottle, then nuzzled in the warm softness my chest to fall asleep.

But I didn't have the pleasure.

My final pre-Pig-Pig moments took place on the sofa, not-so-fresh off the plane from England, enthusiastically catching up on lost time with Julie. I suddenly looked around, "Where's Pork Chop?" 

"He's in his bed. Aren't you, Pig-pig?" she baby-sang toward a tower of brown fluffy blankets piled high under a table. I heard him first – a delayed reaction to his name, I suppose. It was a loud grunt. More like a congested fog horn than an animal noise. (On what planet did Old McDonald come up with an "oink oink"? That myth was debunked quicker than the 'cute, curly tail' one.) I still didn't see an animal. The pile of blankets moved – they shook, shuddered and trembled and there ensued a lot of scuffling and snuffling. This went on for a minute. I stared wide-eyed at the spectacle, then side glanced at Julie.

"What's he doing?" This huge brown fluffy jell-o mountain was not what I had expected.

"He's getting up." 

True enough, the blankets began to rise, lopsided at first, as if he had to straighten one leg, gain traction then transfer weight to the next leg, in order to rise to his grand old porkin' size. Each movement was accompanied by a honk or a snort. An ogre drowning in curdled arthritis. Then the honks stopped. A silent, brown 'blanket-monster' froze under the table.

I guffawed, half in awe, half nervously. "Does he always dress like that?"

"No. He put on his Sunday-best when he heard you were coming. He wanted to look as handsome as possible for his Auntie. Right, Piggy-wig? You vewy fashionable, aren't you?" 

Honk.  He definitely recognized his name and wanted to do something about it.

"Yeah fake fur is in," I mumbled, still in disbelief. 

Julie got up and disappeared into the kitchen, "Cup of tea?" she yelled. Twilight zone. I guess this honky-tonky blanket business was not unusual.

"Lovely. Thanks." Black tea with milk is the answer to everything in England. Hard day? "Have a nice cup of tea. It'll cheer you up, love." Good news? "Let's put the kettle on and break open the bickies. Let's celebrate!" (bickies AKA biscuits=cookie) Your best friend is in a coma? "Tea for two coming up. If she wakes before the water boils, she'll want a nice cuppa." When I visited my dad in hospital, I realized that 50% of a nurse's job was spent making goddamn tea for patients and all their visitors. Air first, then tea.

Poem (so bad, I have to label it 'poem')

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Catchy.