By the Way

There’s nothing sadder than a pig with hurt feelings

By Emory Jones

My pet pig, Cunningham, and I have had a falling out. You see, through no fault of my own, some of the pieces I sometimes write about him—to my wife’s surprise—recently won an award from the Georgia Press Association.

Unfortunately, and I never will believe this was accidental, the newspaper put my picture in the paper instead of the pig’s. 0 [YPLK [V RLLW *\UUPUNOHT MYVT ÄUKPUN V\[ I\[ IL[^LLU social media, TikTok and television, keeping a secret from a pig nowadays is pert nigh impossible. Still, I had to try. First, I told Cunningham his computer had the Coronavirus. Then I unplugged his television and cunningly convinced him the darn thing had died. Lastly, I hid the paper behind the frigidaire. But all was for naught because, as any farmer will say, it’s hard to hide a newspaper from a pig. Once Cunningham found the paper, he promptly spotted the picture of me holding the plaque and instinctively wanted to know what it was about.

Being quick on my feet, I told him I’d won a Weight Watchers award for losing 25 pounds. Looking back, I should have fabricated a more feasible falsehood, but again, as any farmer will tell you, it’s hard to think fast when you’ve got a pig staring you down, quick-witted or not. Suspicious, Cunningham drug the paper to my wife, Judy, who—not buying the weight loss story either—was as surprised as the pig to see my picture there. (You know what they say, behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.) Judy usually refuses to read newspapers to pigs—it’s just the way she was raised—but this time, she recklessly made an exception. After learning the award was about him, Cunningham did what any pig would do—he ran away from home. Now, normally, when Cunningham runs away from home, he gets hungry and either comes right back or winds up at that feed mill on Cleveland’s Cemetery Street, soliciting peppermint WPNWLSSL[Z:V0SVVRLK[OLYLÄYZ[ As he always does, the manager met me at the door. “What do you want?” he asked, inadvertently blocking my way. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m looking for my pig. He’s run away from home again. I thought he might be here.” “Why did he run away from home again?” “Because they put my picture in the paper instead of his.” “Well, that would do it. Anyway, he’s not here.” “Are you sure?” “It’s hard to miss a pig.” He had me there. I decided to search the north end of the county and assigned the south side to Judy. We’ve looked for a week now, and I think Judy is riding with one of the neighbors because I’m pretty sure her car has never been moved when I get back home. Please keep an eye out, and if you see Cunningham, tell him his computer is well, and the TV is no longer on the blink. I remember how awful I felt when my grandmother would punish us by taking away the Sears and Roebuck catalog. Don’t get me wrong. Grandmother may have been grumpy on the outside, but if you ever needed anything—like a spanking— ZOL»KIL[OLÄYZ[VUL[OLYL[VNP]LP[[V`V\

Emory Jones grew up in Northeast Georgia’s White County. After a stint in the Air Force, he joined Gold Kist as publications manager. He was the Southeastern editor for Farm Journal Magazine and executive vice president at Freebarin & Company, HU([SHU[HIHZLKHK]LY[PZPUNHNLUJ`/LOHZ^YP[[LUÄ]LIVVRZPUJS\KPUN;OL=HSSL`>OLYL;OL`+HUJLK"+PZ[HU[=VPJLZ!;OL Story of the Nacoochee Valley Indian Mound; a humorous history book called Zipping Through Georgia on a Goat Powered Time Machine; White County 101 and Heart of a Co-op--The Habersham EMC Story.Emory is known for his humor, love of history and all things Southern. He and his wife, Judy, live on Yonah Mountain near Cleveland, Georgia.

“And then the sun took a step back, the leaves lulled them selves to sleep and Autumn was awaked.” – Raquel Franco