By Zachary Holbrook
I narrow my eyes at the porker rooting through a box of graham crackers on my kitchen floor. Today, your reign of terror comes to an end.
The potbelly pig chomps down on another package of crackers. I crouch, inching past the cupboard door that hangs lopsidedly from busted hinges, a victim of the pig’s hungry rampage. A tortilla chip crunches beneath my boot. Susanna gives this thing fifty dollars’ worth of feed a month, and it still eats like a pig.
I lunge. The critter squeals and slips from my grasp. I skid across the tile, crashing into the dishwasher with a groan. My knee sends a potent reminder that I’m not as young as those days when I’d imagined myself as a hog-wrangling rodeo star.
Well, what I lack in youthful agility, I’ll make up for in cunning. Craigslist found me a buyer who’s scheduled to come in half an hour—some potbelly-obsessed lady willing to pay almost enough for the pig to cover the property damage it’s inflicted. This is my chance. Never again will demented squeals wrest me and my wife from our slumber.
The pig trots out through the open sliding glass door. I jam my cowboy hat on my bald head and dart after it. You want to take this contest into nature? Man vs. pig, a primal struggle in the great outdoors? So be it.
The brisk autumn air invigorates my bones. I flex my muscles and circle the pig as it digs its snout into the lawn. I need to cut it off from the tree line looming in the distance. If it escapes into the Pennsylvania woods—
“Hey Dad, whatcha’ doing?” Susanna skips around the side of the house, flaxen curls bouncing around her gap-toothed smile. Reinforcements. Just what I need.
“Trying to sell this pig.” I nod toward a rake propped against the wall. “Mind grabbing that and herding it toward me?”
Susanna’s eyes widen. “You can’t sell Snowshoe!”
“Your mother can’t sleep with that thing banging around the house every night.” I throw my hands in the air. “She’s already tired enough with her pregnancy. You know what that means.”
Susanna nods solemnly. “If Mom ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
“For the sake of her sanity, please help me catch this pig.”
Susanna hesitates. “Maybe we could… teach it to be quiet?”
“Well, you see—get it!”
The pig makes a beeline for the woods. I dash to cut it off, a burst of adrenaline banishing the effects of sleep deprivation. The pig skids to a stop, tearing chunks from my lawn, then pivots and races back toward Susanna.
“Grab the rake!” I shout. Susanna yelps, but obeys and swings her implement in a haphazard arc. The pig shies away with an oink.
I point to an outside corner of the house. “We can trap it against those walls.”
Susanna looks at me with eyes big enough to melt a heart of stone. “But I don’t want to sell Snowshoe.”
I sigh. “After we send Snowshoe to a new, happy home, I’ll get you a puppy. Deal?”
Susanna perks up. “A brown-and-white spotted St. Bernard puppy that sleeps in my bed?”
I gotta hand it to her—the girl knows what she wants. But as long as she’s asking for a classic American pet instead of an undersized terrorist that belongs on a plate next to a heap of scrambled eggs, I’ll give it to her.
“We may be done with indoor pets for a while,” I say, creeping toward the pig. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
Susanna takes a deep breath and salutes. “Deal.”
As one, father and daughter close in on Snowshoe. I pat the lump of baling twine in my pocket—should be enough to secure the pig until the buyer arrives.
Susanna prods Snowshoe’s rump with the rake. The pig lumbers forward. I crouch, picking up a piece of snapped graham cracker from the patio, and hold it alluringly. Snowshoe gives no response. Already gorged from his raid on our pantry, it seems.
Snowshoe dashes for the gap in between Susanna and me. I throw out my arm in a convulsive motion. My hand closes around coarse, bristly skin. The pig lets out an ear-shattering squeal, hooves scraping frantically on concrete. I scramble for purchase as my grip weakens. The pig shifts into reverse, legs milling backward—and breaks free of my grasp.
“No!” I push myself up, joints protesting. Snowshoe races past me and back onto the lawn.
Susanna lets out a cry and runs after him. Snowshoe looks up, something like confusion registering on his porcine features as Susanna leaps into the air and tackles him. My brave little girl keeps her arms wrapped around the pig’s neck as he takes off, dragging along her wiry frame.
I grab the wad of twine from my pocket and dash to Snowshoe’s side. With Susanna weighing him down, I’m able to grab the pig’s leg and deftly slip a loop over it. Snowshoe shrieks at my touch.
Susanna rolls off Snowshoe’s back and flops on the wet grass. “That was fun!”
I grin despite my aching bones. Snowshoe quiets down as soon as I release him. I grip my end of the twine as he trots away and glares at me.
Susanna pads forward, resting a tender hand on the pig’s back. “Goodbye, Snowshoe. I’ll never forget you.”
I chuckle. “He’ll live well in his new home.”
Susanna turns to me. “Can we get my puppy now?”
I freeze, suddenly realizing the magnitude of my promise. A puppy—barking all night, chewing anything it can get its jaws around, and marking its territory.
Susanna clasps her hands in front of her. I breathe in the sight—hopeful eyes, cornflower-blue dress fluttering in the wind—and know I’ll do anything for her.
“All right.” I sigh, resolved. “You’ll get a puppy.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Funny!
Man, you are good at this. I always know it is going to be a good story, usually very funny just like this one, when I see your name in the author spot. Great job with this one, Zachary Holbrook!
LOL! As someone who has chased a variety of animals when they haven’t wanted to be caught, this is hilarious. Love this story!
That was fantastic! You had me laughing from the first line.
This was fantastic. I loved the premise and the execution. And of course I love a good pig story since my last name is Hamm. ;)
Aww, that was fun! Even if a puppy makes a pig-sized mess sometimes, I think dad will love it more.
Lol, you had me from the very first line! This was hilarious!