OFF THE PAGE WITH RIVER JORDAN

Once Upon a Pig

Years after my Daddy returned from Vietnam there were still ghosts who haunted him. Fallen young men he could not save nor resurrect. Perhaps this is why he came home on one dark and stormy night slightly inebriated - which closer to the truth was he might have been drunk on his ass because he stood like a man on the deck of the boat and would suddenly slide sideways and then step up just in time to catch himself.

My mother, sister, and I were already in pajamas but I don’t think we had been fully asleep when he arrived with his prize. There was a noise and Daddy shouting and the light on in the kitchen and then we were all standing there staring at the odd thing - a wet pig he had rescued dodging traffic on a dark, rainy night. The pig was drenched and Daddy was drenched and the three of us pajama clad regular citizens stared in a strange, state of wonder.

“What is that thing?” My mother asked to no one in particular.

“It’s a pig,” my sister said. Being the oldest child, I always felt guilty for no reason and responsible to right all things gone sideways. So I chewed my lip and thought about what steps to take next.

“No, hell it’s not a pig,” Daddy said, righting himself to full sail standing again. “It’s a damned dog.”

We all stared at the creature that was now heartily eating cold, red, slices of Bologna from Daddy’s hand. It was round and fat with a little snout of a head and a curly to a fair-the-well tail. My sister can verify these statements as fact. All of it. It’s the kind of story that bears well to have a witness.

“Daddy,” I said, “Where did you get it?”

“Hell, from the middle of the road. It was gonna get hit in a minute.” He gazed at it with a strange kind of affection. Like his rescuing it had made up for some wrongs.

We were a critter friendly family. We had always had our personal dogs. One for me. One for sister. And we had also been each given a kitten which grew into mama cats who were left to roam wild so a few times of the year we also had a fresh batch of kittens. We had owned rats, birds, and rescued wild creatures to help and heal them. But we had never, not once or ever, had a pig.

Daddy had already been trying to numb the voices of those dead and seeing that snouty, curly tailed creature, scared and wet and dodging brakes and nearly missed tires was just too much for him. He couldn’t save all the dead he’d known but by God he could pull over and save this one pitiful thing. So he had.

The next morning the pig was still there. It had not been a shared dream or hasty rainy night illusion. Furthermore, upon inspection with proper amounts of caffeine and sunlight, it was obvious the pig was expecting. As in offspring. Sister and I looked at each other.

We were fond of all animals great and small but there was nothing about the poor, pregnant pig that ushered up any deep feelings for us other than perhaps repulsiveness. I’m sorry to say this. Being older and kinder in most of my ways I would think now I might be as merciful as my Daddy.

“It’s a damned dog,” Daddy said. My sister and I shook our heads in unison.

“No daddy. It is a pig,” we said and we stuck by our classification of said snouty, short, pig-legged, pig-tailed thang.

As the days went by it became apparent to us that Daddy and Mama had reached an understanding.

The pig would stay with us until she had her baby piglets and then someone would find a home for all of them. Sister and I washed our hands of all responsibility of this mission. We figured it was a losing proposal from the get-go because who was going to want a piglet.

A few weeks went by and the piggy thing became more piggy-fied as she became rounder and rounder until the exciting day when she gave birth. Sister and I actually rushed to see what had been delivered unto the earth. Which turned out to be four little piglets with snouts and curly porky-pig tails.

We pointed to the blanket where the piglets rooted and nursed.

“Pigs!” we declared.

At this Daddy laughed, shook his head, and said, “They’re damn dogs.”

Now, we were not without faith or in trusting signs from heaven. That is to say we were not hard-hearted skeptics but we weren’t certain homes would be secured for any of these things that squirmed and squealed and figured we would be moved out and in college by the time the last one died of old age curled at Daddy’s feet as he watched Westerns on Channel 4 out of Dothan, Alabama. But he did it. Daddy did it.

He saved that creature and took care of her till she gave birth and until her little mirror selves were old enough to give away. Found homes for every one of them and the last family volunteered to take the mama also.

For years people came by to tell my Daddy how those little gifts of love were doing. Each of them declared it was the “best damn dog they’d ever had.”

Me and sister rolled our eyes. “Best damn pig,” we whispered.

River Jordan is an author, speaker, teacher and radio host. As a southerner with a global perspective she is a passionate advocate for the power of story.

River's writing career began as a playwright and she spent over ten years writing and directing. She is the best-selling author of four novels and a three spiritual memoirs. As a critically-acclaimed author her work has been most frequently cast in the company of such writers as Flannery O'Conner, William Faulkner, and Harper Lee.

Ms. Jordan lives on a hill just beyond Nashville city limits surrounded by her wild, southern family. When not on the road you'll find her on her porch at night watching the moon move through the star-filled sky and contemplating all manner of things human and divine.

"River Jordan writes with the lyricism and grace of a gospel hymn, and the tales that weave through Sugar Baby ring like the chorus of a choir, rising and falling and then rising again, like all good sinners do." Michael Farris Smith, author of Nick and Blackwood