“Of all the places in the wide world, Julie’s farm was my favorite place, and I learned some very shocking things about life there. For instance, when pigs were born, the runt of the litter was almost always just straightaway thrown on the dead baby pig pile, since it was bound to die anyway. This was a practice I had protested so often and so loudly that one day Big Dave allowed Julie and me to take a runt into the house to try to raise it.”
— “A Girl Named Zippy,” by Haven Kimmel
A tiny pink piglet can pour on the charm in a way that is difficult to explain with mere words.
It defies explanation. The grunting sow was nightmarish to us, and we had been warned never to go close to a sow with piglets. I avoided the farrowing barn at all costs out of a deep and healthy fear instilled in me with good reason.
So, it is difficult to explain how a shunned, discarded piglet could somehow prompt us to wish madly and deeply for its survival. This little thing somehow proved to be worthy to lose sleep, night after night, and lean toward one-track-minded madness because of it.
My sister named the piglet Arnold, and she took the lead in its care, but I plead insanity right along with her. Baby bottles became our arsenal in this fight for survival, as we lived by a reset alarm clock for weeks on end.
Dad told us we were fighting an uphill battle. He tried to prepare us for undeniable heartbreak, but we were not hearing it. I blame it on the freedom of summer, giving us visions of endless opportunities to accomplish absolutely anything.
By the time school started in September, Arnold was a chubby, thriving sidekick. He followed my sister, and to a lesser degree, me, all around the farm. I lie awake at night for an entirely different reason at this point: I could not imagine leaving Arnold alone for painfully long school days.
How could we sneak him onto the school bus, evading detection? Somehow, I surmised, that was the only hurdle. Keeping him with either my sister or me all day long was a bridge we would cross when we came to it.
By forces of magic, Dad read my mind. At breakfast the day before school was to start, he broached the subject of Arnold.
“It’s time for your pig to realize he is a pig. Today, we’ll build a pen for him, and that’s where he stays. You girls are going to be busy with school, and Arnold is going to be busy being a farm pig.”
Dad praised my sister for her dedication to the pig’s survival, admitting he was wrong in saying the thing didn’t stand a chance. But, he was also making it clear that our dear piglet was, in no uncertain terms, a farm animal.
Time marches on, and Arnold grew massive. Then, there was another talk, Dad telling my sister it was time for the pig to take a little road trip in Cliff Fulk’s livestock truck. I was busy devising plans on where we could hide him, a trick much harder than it was a season ago.
When the day came, a separate check had been made out for the sale of Arnold, and Dad presented it to my sister.
“There is no way that pig ever would have made it without you,” he said. “This money is yours.”
When we went to bed that night, I was trying hard not to cry when I asked my big sister, “So where do you think Arnold is now?” She let out a heavy sigh before telling me the best thing I had ever heard.
“He is with a family who live back a long lane on a big farm, so he can be free and not worry about getting hit on the road.”
I fell asleep with a happy heart, and I found Arnold in my dreams, rolling around in mud puddles and eating corn on the cob, slathered in butter. He was now charming his new family, and there he would live, happily ever after.
