For a while I had a pet pig.
Technically, she wasn't a pet ... she was a lone farm pig who was occasionally bred for little porkers. The farmer had named her Muldoon, after one of New Zealand's more colourful and pig-like Prime Ministers.
My parents rented an old farm house ... the farmers had built themselves a nice new place ... which was close to Muldoon's sty. Sometimes Muldoon would be let out to run around and get some exercise ... sometimes Muldoon would just escape. She had a taste for the rose bushes in the garden, and was persistent enough to get through the flimsy gate, even when I'd remembered to close it. She once wandered into the house, which I thought was great ... my mother was less enthusiastic.
I liked Muldoon, and would often feed her fruit and vegetable scraps, scratch her behind the ears, and even play with her on those occasions when she was out of the rather muddy pen. However, because she was called Muldoon, it never really occurred to me that she was a she. So when piglets started popping out of her one day I was taken by surprise.
It was quite a show. We all gathered around to gaze in awe as the little runts were literally fired out of Muldoon and skidded across the sty floor. She was like a slow-firing air-propelled piglet rifle. Just when you figured she was done ... Pop! ... out came another one.
I can't help but wonder if anyone has ever used a pig in labour as a weapon? Maybe there's a story in that?
Artwork by Guy Landry
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