From the Globe and Mail
LISAN JUTRAS
Lisan Jutras is a Toronto-based writer and editor. She has two cats, a Puerto Rican street dog and many garments covered in pet hair.
September 25, 2007
In 2004, naturalist Lyall Watson wrote a book about pigs called The Whole Hog: Exploring the Extraordinary Potential of Pigs, which he says "came about because over the last 60 years I've had three intimate relationships with pigs.
"It sounds silly," he told The Guardian. "Everything about pigs sounds silly."
Despite the creature's sacred status in many cultures and its well-documented cleverness (they are possibly smarter than dogs), pigs remain at best a cipher to most of us; at worst, synonymous with being fat and dirty (and yet also, perversely, tasty). But then there are those who look the beast in its oddly human eye and like what they see.
Susan Morris is one such person. On Ms. Morris's 40th birthday, her husband said to her: "Do you want a diamond ring or a pig?" Ms. Morris chose the pig.
That was 10 years ago. Ms. Morris still has that birthday pig, a pot belly named Valentine, on her property in Zephyr, Ont. She also has eight other pot bellies and four "big pigs," whom she casually describes as being mostly "special needs" - one has three legs; another a chromosome disorder. Ms. Morris is a pig magnet.
While the masses surrounding her obliviously chow their way through ham-packed breakfasts, Ms. Morris is busting her hump to run a pig sanctuary, one of a small number in the country for abandoned pigs - typically pot bellies who proved more of a handful than their owners anticipated.
"They're difficult to have in the house," Ms. Morris says. "They've got hooves, they'll scratch up a hardwood floor, they will root in the drywall ... and they just want to be entertained all the time, otherwise they're doing stuff - they're pulling the cushions off the couch, they're ripping up whatever they can find."
Ms. Morris and her husband fund the operation with the salaries they earn as paramedics. The work is endless; the Morrises can never vacation at the same time, and the pigs' need for warmth means Ms. Morris and her husband pay $6,000 a year in electricity for infrared lamps and heating mats for their custom-built pig sheds.
The Morrises' shelter is one of a handful in Canada, and there are hundreds more in the United States. Ms. Morris says she places between six and 10 pigs a year and the numbers show no signs of abating.
The pig-rescue world is now large enough to spawn events such as PigFest in Rushland, Pa., which was attended by 450 people this month, and featured a book signing, veterinary advice, pig-training tips and pig games.
None of this would have come to pass if it hadn't been for Keith Connell, an enterprising zookeeper who, in 1984, was questing for fresh oddities to display at the Bowmanville Zoo. It was in Sweden he was first enchanted by the small, fleshy porkers that were as yet unknown in North America. The following year, Mr. Connell could announce with pride that Bowmanville, Ont., was "the pot-bellied pig capital of Canada." His initial cargo of 18 soon multiplied, and by 1987, he was hawking his pigs to the general public.
Fuelled by adoration for their jolie-laide brand of cuteness, novelty and size, city dwellers were soon buying up these "yuppie puppies," despite bylaws to the contrary and a raft of fairly obvious practical concerns.
"Most people are expecting a small dog shaped like a pig," says Ilona Osborne, who runs Hoofer's Haven, a pig sanctuary in Thunder Bay. Breeders sell cute little piglets to the unwary, sometimes calling them "micro-mini pigs," which later grow to 125 pounds (57 kilograms) and learn how to raid the fridge, a favourite swinish exploit.
Nonetheless, those who fall for pigs fall hard. "Rosie" (not her real name) lives with her pig illegally in Markham, Ont. "I make sure she's under control," says Rosie, who takes her pig for walks on a leash and relies on the kindness of her neighbours to keep her out of trouble with the law.
She admits that owning the pig has taken over her life; the pig sleeps in a "Cape Cod-style toddler's bed" with stuffed animals and refuses to walk on varnished floors. But Rosie, who describes pigs as "perpetual toddlers" and "incredibly neurotic," wouldn't have it any other way.
"She sits and 'gives hoof' and gives kisses on the lips," Rosie says proudly. "She plays the toy piano.
"I've had people meet my pig and say, 'I can't eat bacon any more.' Because after looking in their eyes and seeing what they understand, seeing the emotions on their face, it's like [looking at] a person."
My pigs - past & present
