The Good Good Pig (2 page)

A number of my friends have suggested, not always jokingly, I might be half animal myself. In my travels around the world, it appears that others see this too: shamans and fortune-tellers have told me again and again I am a very old soul—but that this is my first incarnation as a human.

That feels true. I've always known I am different. At times that has made me feel shy and awkward among other people, as if they were looking at me funny. (Possibly because the cockatiel who sat on my head as I worked left droppings in my hair.) But I am different inside, too. While other people are thinking about a new kitchen or a Caribbean cruise, or whether their child will win the soccer match, or what to wear to a party, I am thinking about how a possum's tail feels as it grips a branch, or whether the snapping turtle who tried to lay eggs in our yard last year will come back this fall.

Like a not-quite-human creature living among people far more comfortable in their own skins, I always felt a gap between me and more “normal” people. But, though neither Howard nor I realized it at the time, in the shoe box on my lap that gray spring day, we carried a creature who would bridge that gap in a way I'd never before dreamed possible. Because Christopher Hogwood would prove, in many ways, to be more human than I am.

W
HAT WOULD WE DO WITH A PIG? PEOPLE WANTED TO KNOW.
H
E
was certainly not for the freezer, we would quickly assure them. I am a vegetarian and Howard is Jewish.

Of course we loved pigs—but who doesn't? After all, what is more jolly and uplifting than a pig? Everything about a pig makes people want to laugh out loud with joy: the way their lardy bulk can mince along gracefully on tiptoe hooves, the way their tails curl, their unlikely, but extremely useful, flexible nose disks, their great, greedy delight in eating. But we knew precious little about them.

When I was six, visiting my mother's mother in Arkansas, I had spent a blissful afternoon with a little boy hanging around his father's pigsty. The pigs were huge and pink and made fabulous, expressive noises. I was fascinated. I apparently classed them with horses (not a bad guess, as both are hoofed mammals—but new DNA evidence shows horses are actually more closely related evolutionarily to dogs than to pigs) because I almost immediately got on the back of one of them as if she were a pony. The pig generously let me ride around on her. This was much talked about in the dusty little cotton-growing town of Lexa, where my glamorous mother had, improbably, grown up—a place where nothing much more exciting than this ever happens. Later, the boy named a pig after me. I relished this honor so much that even though I never saw the boy again, I recall his name to this day—as he surely recalls mine, more than four decades later, having said it daily over the life of his pig.

Since then, my experience with pigs was limited to visits to George and Mary's, the hog pens at local agricultural fairs, and a single meeting with our neighbor's huge brown boar, Ben. All too soon after our meeting, though, Ben disappeared into the neighbor's freezer.

But my husband seemed ready to embrace this new member of the family. Howard had already selected a new name for the Spotted Thing. He would be named in honor of an exponent of early music. The original Christopher Hogwood is a conductor and musicologist, and founder of the Academy of Ancient Music. We often used to write while listening to his conducted work on National Public Radio. So Christopher Hogwood was an apt name for several reasons. Pigs' affinity for classical music is well known; many an old-time hog farmer piped it into the sty to keep the pigs calm. As Howard likes to say, what earlier music is there than a pig's grunting?

B
UT
C
HRISTOPHER
H
OGWOOD DID NOT GRUNT THAT FIRST NIGHT.
His breathing was wet and noisy. His eyes were runny, and so was his other end. We had no pig medicine. We didn't even have a proper sty. We didn't know how long he'd live. We didn't know how big he'd get. We didn't have a clue what we were getting into.

How long
do
pigs live? This was a question we would often be asked, and our answer always shocked everyone: six months. Most pigs are raised for slaughter, and this happens quite literally at a tender age, once they reach about 250 pounds. A few lucky sows and breeder boars will be allowed to live for years, but they, too, are usually dispatched when their productivity wanes. Even breeder boars seldom live past 6 or 7, because they become so heavy they would crush the young sows who produce the biggest litters.

Relatively few people keep pigs as pets. Those who do usually keep Vietnamese potbellied pigs. Vietnam, with a porcine population of about 11.6 million (winning top honors for most pigs in Southeast Asia), manages to cram so many pigs into such a small area by breeding extraordinarily small pigs—but
small
is a relative term when it comes to swine. Vietnamese potbellied pigs, if allowed to live to maturity at about age five, typically grow to about 150 pounds. From Vietnamese potbellied stock, scientists have bred even smaller pigs for research purposes—“micropigs” who might weigh as little as thirty pounds and stand only fourteen inches tall, and who can make fine pets. But many pigs touted as tiny turn out to be of mixed porcine parentage and, to their owners' horror, quickly outgrow their miniature dimensions, necessitating potbelly rescue groups such as Pigs Without Partners (Los Angeles) or L'il Orphan Hammies (in Solvang, California). Even the ones who stay small can mean big problems. One woman we know had to give away her Vietnamese potbelly because he would bite whenever he thought that she or her husband were taking up too much space in their communal bed.

Christopher Hogwood was no Vietnamese potbelly, but there was a decent chance, Mary promised us, that he would stay small. That first night, we couldn't picture him growing much bigger than the shoe box in which we carried his shivering, emaciated form. We couldn't see that far ahead—and I didn't want to. That spring, it seemed I woke every day to sorrow, as every day carried me closer to my father's death.

I could barely allow myself to hope Christopher would survive the night.

C
HAPTER 2

Buying the Farm

F
OR SO LONG, EACH MORNING HAD FELT THE SAME
. F
ROM SLEEP,
consciousness came on like a slow sickness. For a moment I would wonder vaguely what was wrong. Then it would hit me—my father's cancer, the looming deadline for the book, the home we were going to lose—and I would lie still as if pinned by its weight. “
Now
what?” I would think. I didn't want to get up.

Until the morning I woke up and remembered a baby pig was in the barn.

Originally I had envisioned him sleeping with us, in the bed. Howard, possibly influenced by the leaky state of the sick pig's rear end, had vetoed the idea. Chris should not be raised as a house pig, he insisted. My housekeeping was bad enough as it was.

So that first night, Christopher Hogwood was exiled to the ground floor of the barn. We had prepared a cozy nest. There were no stalls in the barn, but no matter: among the charms of an old barn is a vast archive of farm and garden implements as well as leftover building materials and fencing supplies, the inherited riches of a century of previous owners and their animals. Our landlord's three-level barn, for instance, contained, among other things, a trove of New Hampshire license plates from different eras, an ancient wagon wheel, a granite millstone, a lead-lined grain bin, windows, doors, and screens of various sizes, rolls of chicken and turkey wire, a pile of wooden loading pallets, a jumble of metal fence stakes, a 1980s
Gone with the Wind
poster parody (Margaret Thatcher in the arms of Ronald Reagan), a framed print of the
Mona Lisa,
and a boat toilet. From such a collection you can usually find, if not the very thing you want, at least something that will do.

Gretchen had come over to help us with the pig nursery. Raising organic vegetables, Siamese cats, and Connemara ponies on a hardscrabble farm in the next town over, she was an expert at making do: she had obtained the foam mattress for her bed from the dump (“
before
it had been rained on,” she boasted). The stone foundation of the barn would serve as one outside wall, and two old doors, set on their sides and propped up with concrete blocks, created temporary back and side walls. Although the lower level of the barn had a huge sliding door on rollers, the bottom had rotted out, and a piglet could easily crawl beneath it to escape. But Gretchen saw instantly how to proceed. In front of our temporary pen, she placed a two-by-four on its long side, into which, incredibly, precisely fitted the slats of one of the wooden pallets. Voilà: half a fence-like wall, about three feet high. Another pallet, tied with string to one of the barn's wooden beams, created the other half, forming a gate we could swing open.

On the barn's dirt floor we had scattered two bales of clean, fragrant wood shavings. We made a bed from a couple of flakes of sweet hay. Here, on that first night, as I knelt beside him stroking and kissing his stunted, spotted form, Christopher Hogwood pushed his nose disk beneath the hay, tucked his hooves beneath him, and went almost immediately to sleep.

Still, I had worried about him all night. What if he got sicker? Could we pay extensive vet bills on top of the airfares to Virginia? Or worse—what if I found his little body lifeless in the hay? I rushed out of the house still in my nightshirt to see him. Already, I realized, I loved him so much it scared me.

A
NIMALS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN MY REFUGE, MY AVATARS, MY SPIRIT
twins. As soon as I learned to talk, I began to inform people I was actually a dog. Next, for an entire year, I insisted I was a horse. My father obliged by calling me “Pony,” taking me on endless pony rides, and patiently staring with me for hours at every animal in the zoo. The hippo, whose pen I toddled into at the zoo in Frankfurt, Germany, before I was two, failed to trample or bite me, instead behaving like most of the animals I met—as if I belonged with them. Dragonflies, butterflies, and wild birds would light on my shoulders. Beetles and spiders were welcome to crawl on my skin. I preferred their company to that of other children, whom I found noisy and erratic.

When I was old enough to think about it, I realized I understood animals in a different way than other people, probably because I had the patience to watch them and see how interesting and compelling they really are. Perhaps animals revealed themselves to me because I didn't wiggle and scream like other kids. Other parents were astonished to find I had sat still long enough for artists to complete two portraits of me before I was three—paintings showing an infant, and then a toddler, with an unusually intense, focused gaze. Motionless and silent for hours, I was watching the flame of a lit candle.

My father was proud of my concentration. My mother feared I was retarded. Her worries deepened when I was sent home on my first day of kindergarten for biting a little boy after he tore the legs off a daddy longlegs. Even then I knew: the daddy longlegs and his kin were my tribe; the cruel little boy was not.

It was not that I disliked people; some of them were interesting and kind. But even the nice ones were no more compelling or important to me than other creatures. Then, as now, to me humans are but one species among billions of other equally vivid and thrilling lives. I was never drawn to other children simply because they were human. Humans seemed to me a rather bullying species, and I was on the side of the underdog.

Still, my mother cherished hopes I would turn out like a normal child. She bought me baby dolls. I flung them aside. But first I would strip off their clothes and use them to lovingly dress the stuffed baby caimans my father had brought back from South America. I would sometimes emerge from my room pushing a doll's pram, displaying the toothy, dressed-up reptiles to the horrified wives of colonels and generals gathered for my mother's bridge and cocktail parties.

This wasn't the sort of daughter my poor mother had in mind. On her Singer Featherweight, she sewed elaborate, frilly dresses to go with the lacy little girls' socks and patent leather shoes she bought at the PX. For her husband's promotion to brigadier general, a ceremony at which he also took command of the Brooklyn Army Terminal, she dressed up her blond six-year-old like those baby dolls I had flung aside, complete with bonnet and little white gloves. I remember wishing I were wearing fatigues and combat boots like the other soldiers.

After all, hadn't I helped my father get his general's stars? Every night, before his promotion, we had a ritual: I would ride on his shoulders as he walked the green border of the oriental rug, pretending I was a circus girl and he was a giant gorilla walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes. He was teaching me to be brave, to fear nothing, to hunger for wild experiences. We were practicing, I believed, for adventures we would one day have together. We would explore the world—Africa, where the real gorillas were, and Australia, where strange and alluring pouched mammals such as kangaroos and koalas lived. But first, I would need to grow up, and he would need to trade the eagles on his shoulders for a brigadier's stars. So each night, before bed, I would seize the moon and the stars from the sky and put them in the pocket of my father's uniform, and kiss him goodnight.

F
INDING
C
HRISTOPHER ALIVE THAT MORNING REMINDED ME OF
the comforting fact that the worst thing doesn't
always
happen. Standing shakily, it was clear he was not a healthy pig. He was very skinny. His tail didn't curl, but drooped like a dried-up umbilical cord. But he was stronger. He didn't even seem lonely. Normally, wild pigs are gregarious creatures, living in groups called sounders of about twenty animals (though sometimes more than a hundred). Much like elephants, two or more pig families, composed of mothers and their children, may travel, play, feed, and rest together, the sounders staying stable until the mating season (when previously solitary males fight for females, mate, and then, mercifully, leave). On farms, pigs also enjoy the company of their fellows. Pig communities are called drifts—a word I always loved, for it evokes a group of animals moving as one, drifting like a cloud of pigdom over the landscape. Pigs snuggle together when they sleep, and if baby pigs are anxious, they'll stick together so tightly that commercial hog farmers call the phenomenon “squealing super-glue.”

But for Christopher, it must have been a luxury to spend the night alone. With a spacious, clean, dry pen all to himself, he was unencumbered by the squeal and sprawl of pushy, bigger siblings who always ate all the food. And he probably didn't miss his mother, either—after all, if he complained, there was always the danger she'd bite him in half. It was probably a relief to have escaped from his pig family.

That very first morning, Christopher Hogwood seemed to understand that things had changed for the better. His new family must have looked odd to him—vertical, hairless, and eight nipples short of the proper quota, among other inadequacies. This would require some accommodation, but he seemed game. Calm but curious, he looked at me with his humanlike brown eyes as if to say, “OK—
now
what?”

I was wondering the same thing. But now it seemed a far more hopeful question.

I
WAS BURSTING TO TELL MY FATHER ABOUT
C
HRISTOPHER
. M
Y
mother had stoically put up with all the creatures I'd had as a child—scaly, biting lizards who would escape while my father was at work and I was at school, parakeets who would perch on the chandelier and splatter droppings on the mahogany dining room table, turtles she'd find swimming with me in my bathwater—but my father truly loved animals. News of our little pig might have taken his mind off his illness.

But I kept Christopher Hogwood a secret. There was no reason I could think of that my father wouldn't like the pig. But if he hadn't approved of this creature I so tenderly adored, it would have broken my heart—as had happened with my marriage.

I had loved Howard all through college, though I didn't realize it. We had worked together on Syracuse University's daily newspaper, the
Daily Orange.
When Howard was managing editor, he had hired me as an assistant, and later we worked side by side editing the op-ed and editorial pages for eight hours a day, five days a week, for two years. I enjoyed everything about him—his brilliant wit, his bewildering abundance of ideas, his forceful, surprising writing, his commitment to bettering the world. I loved his loud laugh and his bushy black eyebrows and his mass of unruly curls that reminded me of a Cotswold sheep. But we were friends. We'd never dated.

Three months after graduation, with a contract to publish his first book, Howard was temporarily without an apartment. Since I had a job on a New Jersey newspaper and a rented cabin at the edge of a wood, I invited him to stay with me. He said he would only need to stay till Christmas.

He didn't say which Christmas. But in the meantime, each morning he would wake me by playing my favorite record,
Songs of the Humpback Whale,
and place a ferret or two in my bed. By day, we would both write—he at the cabin, me at the newspaper—and phone each other with writing questions. Would this lead work? How to handle that transition? We would both write about fourteen hours a day, often six days a week. We were on fire with words we hoped would elucidate and preserve what we found beautiful and important in the world—its historic and natural landmarks, its wild lands and creatures, our understanding of our place on the planet. Howard inspired me with his dedication and intellect, and delighted me with his gentleness and humor; he came to love my intensity and joy.

Eight years later—after I'd quit the paper, lived for six months in a tent in the Australian outback, rejoined Howard in a rented carriage house at the New Hampshire–Massachusetts border, and moved, again, to the house our friends owned—we were still living together. I had not mentioned this to my parents. I hadn't, in fact, mentioned Howard at all. My mother had strong views about the “right kind” and “wrong kind” of people to “cultivate.” This tall, skinny Jewish liberal with wild, curly hair was not one of them.

When we announced our plans to marry, Howard came to Virginia. My father was pained. He knew what was in store. My mother was livid. Speaking to me even more slowly than her Arkansas accent normally flowed, as if belaboring the obvious, she detailed Howard's unsuitability: he didn't have a “real” job, he laughed too loudly, his hair was wild, and his sneakers were coming untied. Then, attempting to sound sympathetic, she added, “And he can't
help
it that he's Jewish.”

Howard's parents, on the other hand, had known about me all along. Relieved we were going to legitimize our relationship, they forgave the cross around my neck. They assured me my parents would come around. After all, they said, we were family.

Frankly, family meant little to me. Almost everyone in my extended family was dead before I was born—my father's mother and brother, my mother's father—and those few who survived to my birth lived too far away to often see. If family was really some cohesive, committed unit, how could my parents so adamantly reject the chosen spouse of their only child? To me, family meant a mother and a father and the offspring that biology dealt them—often to their mutual sorrow. I wanted none of it.

After our wedding, which they did not attend, my parents sent me a letter in which they formally disowned me. I can't remember the words—Howard took the letter away—but I remember the shock of seeing the handwriting: it was written in the forceful, familiar, beloved hand of my father.

Why had my father written it? The question plagued me. My father was less prejudiced than most men of his era. He got along with everyone—black, white, Christian, Jew, Yankee, Southerner. He did not even hate the former enemy, the Japanese. But on the issue of my husband, I finally decided, he had capitulated to my mother's vehemence; after all, he lived with her, not me.