Debi & the Christmas Pig
Pets never
fared all that well in the Lawley household. Somewhere along the line, someone
(probably one of my sisters, Erin or Debi) decided that the culprit behind all
the mysterious pet deaths that plagued our home for years was my mother,
Rosemarie; and much to Mom’s chagrin, every visitor that our home received got
quite the earful concerning exactly how she had developed her particularly
curious penchant. Tinker, the dachshund, was tied to a tree and mistakenly left
to roast in the August sun, sans a bowl of water. A kitten (whose name
beseeches me, as it was before my time) was “accidentally” let out the front
door to a waiting black Lab who proceeded to rip it to shreds in front of a bus
stop of terrified little girls (who are probably still in therapy). And who
could forget the hermit crabs, who—after a February bathing in the kitchen
sink—received a February drying on the back porch rail. In all honesty, the
list goes on and on. We love Mom, don’t get me wrong, but if your neighbor’s
Golden Retriever is taking regular shits in the front yard, she’s the one to
call. So why was it, then, that sister Deb opted for yet another pet as my parents' Christmas gift in 2003? I’ll never know—but the craziness that ensued has become
a thing of legend.
Debi sold
timeshare at a non-defunct resort in the Poconos, not far from the home where
the three of us grew up in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. In that line of work, she
tells me, you meet “all kinds of people,” and one of them happened to tell her
that pot-bellied pigs make the greatest house pets. “They’re just like lap
dogs,” I can still hear her saying over the phone, as she made her way three
hours North along Highway 380, toward Piggly Wiggly’s farm where she was
picking her “little surprise” up.
“I’m not so
sure, Deb,” I said in my most polite, yet firmly doubtful tone. “This whole
‘pig’ thing might not pan out as expected.”
“Trust me. He’s
gonna love it,” came her quick reply, clearly referring to my dad, Don, and
completely forgetting the fact that this was supposed to be a gift for both of our parents. And in neglecting any
thought of our mother, Debi also neglected the fact that Mom grew up inside of
a small apartment in New Jersey—where there certainly weren’t any farm animals;
and the fact that Mom had refused to set foot on farmland of any kind during
her 30+ years in rural Pennsylvania was seemingly neglected too. Oh, and the whole
issue of Mom being a pet killer—completely out the window.
I wasn’t along
for the three-hour ride back into town with the squealing pig and two children
under the age of seven (my niece, Téa—Debi’s daughter—and her cousin, Rah), but
it was later reported to Erin and me that circumstances were less than
enthralling. At one point, amid the high-pitched screams being emitted by varying
species, Rah stared in frustration out the window and whined, “Grandpa’s not
gonna like his present.” He too, forgot about Grandma. Résumé
There’s a
certain way to give a gift of questionable impact to someone. It has a lot to
do with being tactful, and thoughtful, and also requires impeccable timing.
Debi had not one of those three things working for her on Christmas Eve when
she pulled into the driveway. Inside my parent’s house, Erin and I both knew
about the special package that was about to arrive, but suffice it to say my
mother was less than prepared when, in an unannounced fashion, Debi hurled open
the kitchen door and dropped a yelping, shrieking, seven-pound demon from Hell
onto the tiled floor.
The first obstacle
that Mr. Piggy was forced to overcome was the kitchen floor itself. Ceramic
tiles, apparently, are not optimal material when it comes to gaining traction
with a six-week-old set of hooves. I’d say it took about 30 seconds for him to
cover a distance of about 40 feet. To my mother, however, I’m sure it felt like
30 minutes. It’s possible that part of the pig’s trouble came from the fact
that Mom was belting out some petrifying shrieks of her own.
Once the pig
made it over the single step that separates the kitchen from the living room,
his pace picked up a good deal. I suppose he was looking for the safest place
hide, because the little devil made a bee-line for the Christmas tree. When the
coast was clear, Mom made her own bee-line for the tallest piece of furniture
she could find, which ended up being the green recliner she spent most evenings
seated upon. But for this occasion, she decided to stand, screaming “It’s me or
the pig!”
Meanwhile, back
at the base of our cut-and-decorated, now shaking-and-shattering evergreen, Dad
and Erin were making a feeble attempt at removing the pot-bellied
Nightmare-before-Christmas from the house before my mom removed it herself, by
whatever means necessary. After a few sloppy moments of grabbing blindly for
the pig beneath the tree’s boughs, Dad decided a large box was the best way to
go. He quickly retrieved one from the garage and instructed me to stand on the
other side of the tree and yell “go pig!” in the loudest and sternest voice I
could muster. I did just that—at which point the pig fouled four nearby
presents and ran into the corner of the vertically-standing box. Dad closed
both of the cardboard doors and rested his foot at the base to extra
protection. Silence.
“Get that thing
out of here right now!” Mom barked.
“Debi, what were you thinking? You weren’t thinking. If you were thinking, you
would’ve thought ‘gee, I shouldn’t bring a live
pig to Mom’s house for Christmas dinner,’ wouldn’t you?”
“It was a present. I heard they make good
pets,” Debi sheepishly defended herself against the still-settling chaos.
“They’re like lapdogs.”
“I don’t even
like dogs, Debi,” Mom snapped back. “Much less a pig that’s supposed to act
like a dog. Get it out of here now. Bring it to the S.P.C.A.”
Disappointed
and defeated, Debi motioned for me to help her. As we tipped the box onto its
long side, it became clear that the pig had urinated while cowering in the
dark, and subsequently, on Mom’s floor too. I could feel the cold pee seeping
through the deteriorating cardboard with my left hand as we carefully loaded
the box into the back of Debi’s Mazda, but, in the spirit of fixing a
near-ruined holiday, I ignored it.
When I came
back in, my clearly frazzled mother was breaking a Xanax in half and breathing
deeply, as if she were at Lamaze class.
Dad was still red and chuckling, Erin just looked at me, wide-eyed but
thoroughly amused. We expected that Debi’s trip to the animal shelter would
take at least twenty minutes, so Erin and I poured a glass of wine and sat down
on the couch to collect ourselves. Imagine our surprise when, less than five
minutes later, Debi returned without the pig.
“Where is it,
Deb?” Mom asked. “I know you’ve still got it.”
“I don’t,” Debi
said in a simple and peaceful voice. “I saw two boys playing down the street,
so I stopped and asked them if they wanted a pig. They said ‘yes,’ so I gave it
to them,” she smiled. “Now it’s their Christmas pig.”
~
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
About
three months later, traffic was shut down for hours on the local highway,
Interstate 80. Through the woods behind my parents’ house, you could see the
cars and trucks sitting motionless as night moved in. In the morning, Dad went
out for the morning paper like he always does. This time, the headline caught
his eye.
“Wreck of Big Rig Caused by Loose Pig.”
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