There is no need to enlarge upon the economic value of the pig. The billboards and the press are radiant with tasteful illustrations of the appetizing final state of this succulent animal. It is in other ways and for other reasons that I admire and love him.
He is the one animal with which man can ever hope to be on intimate terms, who is an incorrigible wag. He is the humorist of the farm. It seems strange that it should be so. Bred for countless generations for nothing but culinary purposes, daily approaching an inevitably tragic end, he has preserved inviolate the comic tradition. When opportunity presents, my friend, look attentively at those little, glittering eyes and you will see a waggish twinkle that will convince you that you are in the presence of a humorist.
To get the very best out of your ownership of a pig, thought should be given to his habitat. An enclosure is necessary. Now then; have the enclosure of such a height that your elbows rest comfortably upon the top, arrange a soft and agreeable footing on the windward side of the enclosure, and all will be well. Your relation with a pig is not an intimate one; he is not to be handled except in early infancy; and you will find that merely to contemplate him, as you stand in a comfortable and relaxed attitude with some support to the body, will yield a rich reward.
They should be secured young. There is in a very young pig an innocent joyousness that will amuse you in the early stages of your acquaintance and will give you food for thought as your intimacy grows. And then the pleasure of seeing them grow! If you have a low and commercial type of mind you can calculate daily your profit, even after deducting the interest on your modest initial investment. The upkeep is not a heavy item. One of the most charming things about a pig is his heartfelt gratitude for the delicacies which a wasteful and ignorant generation regard as inappropriate for human consumption; and to beneficent use he puts them, returning literally an hundredfold.
But it is not these sordid considerations that lead me to love a pig. It is the intellectual sympathy existing between us that endears him to me.
In the first place; a pig, more than any of your other animal friends, looks like many people you know. The moment you see a new pig you have at once a dozen names in mind, every one of them fitting perfectly. I will admit that I have encountered a curious prejudice on the part of some people against having a pig named after them. This can be remedied in a simple and most effective manner. In my case, I have a pig that irresistibly reminded me of a near relative, a man of pronounced opinions. That settled his name. On formal occasions and for reference in certain quarters I use a coldly classic name with no special significance; but at the twilight hour, when that pig and I hold communion, I address him by his lawful given name.
I have had pigs who possessed a variety of aliases. In such a case, as I talk pleasantly with one or the other, I go through the list until I use the one name I know to be his by every right of pigship. An ear pricks up, a roguish eye twinkles a bit more brightly, and after a delicately executed pas seul around the enclosure, he is back once more, demure and attentive.
And how attentive he is! He stands with ears erect, fore feet firmly planted in the empty trough, his little eyes raised to mine, and his nostrils twitching with interest and anticipation. In that posture he is the living image of a lady I know, as she leans over her teacup to catch the last syllable of innuendo in the last titbit of scandal that is making its rapid circuit of our little town. So I address my remarks to Mrs. Jones, and relate to her incidents in the lives of mutual friends no less apocryphal than those so much enjoyed by my neighbors. And Mrs. Jones’ eyes twinkle, and her nose twitches, and her tail curls tighter and tighter in sheer delight, until I burst into laughter with a guilty fear that I may have been overheard—may have so set in motion a new series of stories that would inevitably bring disaster to some of our most respected townsfolk.
There is a direct simplicity about a pig. He knows no affectations. He has but two ends in view: one is to wax fat,—and how splendidly he does it,—the other, to amuse with a subtle, ironic humor. He lives a curiously circumscribed life in utter and absolute contentment. He has none of that nervous intellectual intensity that is so wearing to live with. He has no illusions; he indulges in no moods or fancies; but what a wonderful companion he is—the very flower of discretion! Your most intimate confidences are safe with him.
The older he grows, the more closely in his stately prime does he resemble the president of our local bank until, at times of financial stringency, I can hardly bring myself to visit him. I know if he could speak he would say something about an impending overdraft. He knows it too, and as he waddles over toward me he puffs and grunts a bit in covert imitation of the great man whom he knows I fear. I am quick to act on his suggestion. It suits my mood. There are plans afoot which will soon necessitate a visit to that temple of finance. It will be well to be letter-perfect in my part, though I know from experience that my part in the dialogue will be unimportant, once it gets under way.