Fighting the Jungle Pig

Newsletter 2024-06-09

To the right, a barricade manned by women and children. To the left, a fence of steel backed by a wall of men. In front of me, the most powerful enemy any of us had ever faced. I scratched him behind his ear. He stared into my eyes. Battered, dirty, and exhausted, I knew it had all come down to this. If it didn’t work, my army would abandon me, pulled away by prior commitments in the world outside the overgrown yard behind the burned-out house. We had one last shot to save Onyx from his unpleasant fate, neglected and forgotten on a property unfit for any life, animal or otherwise. The pig didn’t understand any of that. He had no intention of being taken away from the only home he’d ever known.

My hand twitched. Onyx charged. I dove. The finals showdown was on.

You might wonder how I found myself in that situation. Actually, I’m sure you don’t. This weekly newsletter has become a monument to me putting myself in the middle of crises of my own making. Not this time. For once, a disaster happened without my help, and I only inserted myself at the last moment to try to make things right. Three years ago, a young woman bought a piglet at a farm sale. She expected Onyx to stay small. He didn’t. When the woman got a job and moved out, she left the 110 lbs. animal with her mother, who was disabled and a hoarder, in a nine-hundred-square-foot house. The home had a large fenced but unmaintained yard. The pig almost never went out there. He spent virtually all of his time inside that cramped home, urinating on puppy pee pads and occasionally knocking over furniture. His entire world was three people: the grandma, who lived there; the mom, who originally bought him and then moved out; and the grandson, who visited often. Onyx was loved but not well cared for. His tusks were overgrown, he wasn’t fixed, and his hooves had never been trimmed. Still, he was happy. He didn’t know any other way of life.

Last week, there was a fire. Every room of the small house was packed with fuel. The inferno melted the roof and warped the steel front door. All three humans were away. Onyx was inside, as always. I don’t know how he didn’t burn up. It was the most shocking survival since Emperor Palpatine. Minutes after the blaze started, firefighters in full gear burst into the house and chased the pig into the backyard, where he had been ever since. It was the start of his hero’s journey and the most traumatic few days of his life.

To Onyx, the firefighters must have looked like alien invaders. The outdoors likely seemed just as strange. He had never been out there for more than a few minutes at a time to do his business on those rare occasions when he didn’t use the puppy pads. The yard was last mowed about the same time his hooves were groomed. In one corner, there was a foot deep pit that I’m guessing was an attempt to partially bury a long-gone above-ground pool. Now it featured a pile of trash surrounded by weeds taller than me. Another corner had an ancient playground set completely engulfed by the unchecked wilderness. A shed built into the fence line was full of old, dirty mattresses. In the middle of the yard, a riding lawnmower stood vigil where it died, unable to hold back the encroaching wall of green. Onyx’s only way through the foliage were paths he carved himself pacing along the fence line. His only water was a mud pit he dug after it rained.

Onyx was the talk of the town. Everybody said someone should do something. Nobody did. The humane society couldn’t take him, and the pig rescue was full. The mom asked on Facebook if anyone could house Onyx. My friend Delilah shared the post with me. I texted back and forth with the mom. That night, my wife Lola and I took our kids to check on Onyx. His situation was worse than we expected. Even Lola, who would rather die than let a third pig into our house, agreed that we had to do something. We waited two days to see if any other rehoming options panned out. None did. It was us or nobody. Lola gave me the green light to rescue the pig. We wouldn’t adopt him, but we would temporarily put him in our yard and get him the care he needed. We’d figure out the rest from there. First, we had to get him out from behind the burned-out house. That was easier said than done.

Imagine that you’re trying to take an uncooperative toddler on a road trip. Now imagine that that toddler is 110 lbs., has tusks, and has never met you before. That’s what we were dealing with. I thought one extra guy would be enough. I enlisted the help of my friend Bread. The actual reason we call him that is because someone with bad handwriting misspelled his name on a game day, but I like to pretend it’s because he hasn’t eaten a carb since 2002. He’s the most jacked guy I know. He lifts weights multiple times a week and does six to eight hours of cardio every weekend to train for an upcoming Iron Man. If it came down to it, I figured Bread could handle the job by himself, especially since I didn’t think we’d actually have to catch the pig. The mom and grandma agreed to meet us in the yard and lure Onyx into a pet travel carrier with food. There’s no better way to say goodbye to a pet than abusing his trust one last time. Bread and I would simply have to pick up the pig in the crate and load him into my minivan. That’s not how it went at all.

Bread met me in the overgrown backyard over his lunch break. It’s good that his work-from-home engineering gig gives him the flexibility for a surprise pig wrangling. That’s an essential job perk in the Midwest. The mom (who was on crutches and recovering from knee surgery), grandma, and grandson plied Onyx with countless treats. He was happy to eat them. The three clearly loved Onyx, and he loved them back. They meant well, but they didn’t have the ability to care for him. After twenty minutes, it was obvious that Onyx was playing us all for fools. He ate any and all food he was given around the sides of the crate but wouldn’t take a single step toward its opening. Finally, I forced the issue. I reached for Onyx. He took off. Bread and I spent the next forty minutes ineptly chasing him through the dense underbrush. We couldn’t corner him. He had too many places to hide. To add insult to injury, I accidentally knocked the roof off a plastic dog house and unleashed a swarm of wood bees. One bit me in the ankle. It was my own fault for wearing shorts. After an hour, Bread and the mom both had to get back to work. I went home to reconsider all my life choices. Just kidding. I hit up the group text thread. Gondor called for aid. Rohan answered.

A few years ago, I wrote that, as an adult, I didn’t have a single friend to help me move a couch. My life has changed so much since then. With one text message, I raised an army. My brother-in-law Jerry was at a movie with his daughters and two of mine. He said he’d be there. So did Peter, whose wife Delilah first told me about the pig. They were supposed to meet another couple at a pub at 5:45 p.m. but figured they could fit in a quick pig wrangling first. Bread promised to return, too. Of course my squad answered the call. It was a primal rallying cry that harkened back to the days of old, when a dude would sail up in a trireme and shout to his friends, “Hop in, losers! We’re off to slay the Minotaur!” May you all be so blessed as to have a group of friends who will drop everything on a moment’s notice to help you fight a pig.

I had a two-hour gap between the first battle and the second one. I vowed to use every second of that time. I went back to my house to pick up supplies. I packed fencing materials, plastic sleds, wiffle ball bats, and foam swords. It was all stuff I thought could push aside brush and guide the pig. Then I returned to the yard behind the burned-out house and got to work. Cavemen used to drive entire herds of woolly mammoths over cliffs using fire. I, too, would defeat a powerful beast by modifying the environment. I built a chute. I picked a well-worn pig trail along the fence line and used t-posts to anchor hog wire and an overturned table. It was the same fence building technique (minus the table) that I used to protect young bushes from hungry pigs at my house. Surely it would work here. The chute was so brilliant and so stout that I couldn’t resist testing it out. How awesome would it be if, after calling for help, I ended up catching the uncatchable pig by myself? I had to take a shot at eternal glory. At home, the thing my own pigs fear the most is lawn care equipment. I figured Onyx would be the same. I pulled out my weed wacker and, still alone, turned it on. Onyx shot out of cover and ran straight down the chute. I was a genius.

Then, disaster struck. At the end of the chute, Onyx stopped. He refused to go into the crate. He was prey, and every instinct in his body told him not to let a predator corner him in a box. Instead, he turned ninety degrees and rammed straight into the wire fence. He hit it again and again with all his might. He bent the t-post. My pigs had never done that, but they’d never been cornered in what they thought was a life-or-death situation. I realized Onyx would batter himself to death before he willingly walked into that box. I turned off the weed wacker. Onyx doubled back past me but got his tusk tangled in the end of the roll of wire fencing. He flipped over and thrashed wildly. I was worried that he would tear out his tusk or break his own neck. I held the wire steady so he could work himself free. He slipped out and returned to the weeds. I would have to wait for reinforcements. I didn’t realize it then, but I had blown my one chance to use the chute. Onyx learned, and he remembered. He never fell for the same trick twice.

My posse assembled at 4 p.m.. The mom showed up too, and she brought a ringer: her ex-boyfriend, Mason, who was previously a farmhand. Jerry brought my twelve-year-old, Mae, and eight-year-old, Waffle, who had been with their cousins at the movie. I brought my ten-year-old, Lucy. The kids couldn’t take the pig head on, but they might be able to steer him with the strategic use of a plastic bat or foam sword. My fourteen-year-old was off at a party, and Lola was still at work. That last part was for the best. I’m not sure if she still would have agreed to boarding this animal if she realized the raw power we were up against. Almost as soon as she got there, Mae was bitten twice on the ankle by the same swarm of wood bees that got me earlier. She screamed like she was dying. I couldn’t calm her down. That was less than ideal for sneaking up on a pig. Waffle picked that moment to tell me she had to go to the bathroom really, really badly. Curse that movie theater soda. It was a level-ten emergency. There was no plumbing at the burned-out house or in the overgrown yard. I needed to take both kids home. I left as former farmhand Mason entered the yard. I figured he’d have the pig captured by the time I got back. I was so disappointed to miss out.

When I returned, I discovered I had nothing to fear. The pig was still on the loose. According to Jerry, Mason thought he would roll up and quickly snag Onyx. When his first attempt failed, he sat back and said, “Huh. I’m going to have to think about this one.” The war was on. For seventy minutes, we chased that pig around the yard. We cornered him again and again, only for him to repeatedly break through our line. We used every tool at our disposal. Sticks. Rope snares. Physical barriers. Nothing worked. The entire time, it felt like we were thirty seconds from catching him, only for him to elude us once again. Jerry and Peter formed a shield wall of round plastic sleds like a phalanx of old. The pig went around. Mason got his snare hooked on one of Onyx’s tusks. He bucked the rope and ran. Peter dove on him with two sleds, pinning him against the fence line. The pig wormed out and darted away. He never got tired, and he never slowed down. He spent years in the square footage of a shoe box. He saved an entire lifetime’s worth of energy for us.

The pig never attacked. Despite having the power to cause considerable damage with his sharp tusks and teeth, he sought to avoid contact, always trying to dart to our left and right. Meanwhile, we did everything we could to put ourselves directly in his path. Only when we had him cornered would he crash directly into our makeshift barriers. Anything without the full weight of a person behind it was easily tossed aside. We tried to surround him and drive him into the corners, but he was so fast that we ended up with a lot of one-on-one showdowns like in a bad Kung Fu movie. Bread took a pig to the shin and went tumbling end over end. If that had happened in the NFL, the pig would have been flagged for a chop block. After my earlier mistake with the bees, I had changed into jeans and a hoodie, covering as much skin as possible. I was ready to go to ground on any and all terrain. I attempted multiple flying tackles. Mostly, I just bounced off Onyx’s back. Pigs don’t come with handles. Once, in the pit, I wrapped my right arm around Onyx’s entire torso. He dragged me backwards. He was unstoppable with four-wheel drive. If we wanted to halt him in his tracks, we’d have to take out one or more of his legs. That was another idea easier in theory than practice.

Sometimes, we’d take a break and let the mom on crutches try to lure the pig with food. Onyx always ate everything he was offered but wouldn’t move an inch toward the crate. Of course we had to be up against the first pig member of Mensa. He liked the corner by the playground equipment the most because it gave him multiple avenues of escape while requiring us to duck. We closed off one side of the swing set with an overturned table. Delilah and Lucy stood behind it to hold it in place. We wedged the carrier next to it with the door propped open, stuck between wooden equipment and a small mulberry tree. Every time we drove Onyx into our trap, he found a way to break out. The group became demoralized. People had other engagements for Friday evening. I need less popular friends. We had to catch Onyx before the group split apart. I could never pull it off alone.

Fed up, Mason pulled the hog wire from my failed chute on the other side of the yard. We were going to make one final push to catch Onyx in the playground corner. The mom lured Onyx back there again. Mason, Jerry, and Peter held up the hog wire and put their full weight behind it, trapping him in. The mom backed up and sat on the plastic rock climbing wall that Onyx had previously used to scamper over one of our barriers. That pig was part goat. I stepped into the arena. It was just me and him.

I scratched Onyx behind the ear. He let me. I stared into his brown eyes. I felt bad for him. We were trying to help, but there was no way to convince him of that. This dilapidated property was the only world he knew. I reached for his leg.

He took off like a rocket straight at the wire. I launched myself after him, sprawling on the ground. Contact! I had his rear back leg. I held on for my life.

“He’s got a leg!” Mason yelled. In the single bravest act of the day, he dove over the hog wire and on top of Onyx, grabbing the pig by the pointy end, tusks and all.

I struggled to my feet. I had both of Onyx’s back legs in the air. He was upside down. Mason wrestled with his front end on the ground.

“The crate!” Mason yelled. “We need the crate!”

Delilah tried to move it toward us. It was stuck. We had wedged it in place too well. We were losing our grip on the pig.

Delilah climbed over her barrier and gave the crate a mighty front kick. Tragically, she didn’t yell, “This! Is! Sparta!” The crate broke free of the mulberry tree and moved forward. Mason pushed the pig’s head into the carrier. I followed with the pig’s hindquarters. Mason slammed the door closed. I fumbled for the latch. The top prong went in. The bottom one wouldn’t. The crate was squeezed slightly off center. The prongs didn’t line up.

“It won’t go in!” I yelled. Someone lifted the side of the crate. The holes lined up. I snapped in the bottom prong. We had the pig!

I was worried Onyx would simply batter his way out of the crate. I had experienced his strength. There was no way the plastic latches holding the two halves together could stop him. Instead, Onyx gave up. Inside the crate, he was perfectly calm. He didn’t squeal or panic poop. He didn’t make a sound for the entire drive to my house. He was a perfect angel.

I thought the real battle would start when we got home. We had my older pig, Gilly, for two years before we got our second pig, Luna. Gilly went after the new piglet for three straight days. Our house was full of murder squeals. Now the two pigs are best friends—mostly. Like my kids, they have their differences from time to time. I expected a repeat of that process when I introduced Onyx. Pigs are hierarchical and need to establish a pecking order in their herd. There was no way to avoid it. I braced myself for the worst.

Instead of fighting, the pigs ignored each other. Onyx eventually pushed Gilly and Luna a bit with his snout, but that was it. I expected a stronger reaction from an animal that just found out other pigs exist. Then again, he only recently learned there was a world outside his old house. Also, discovering fire had to be a trip. Perhaps he’s encountered so many new things so quickly that he’s no longer able to be amazed. Not that I know what an amazed pig looks like. It’s probably just a regular pig with raised eyebrows.

Wednesday will be another big day for Onyx. That’s when the vet is scheduled to do his tusks, hooves, and testicles all at once. If you wondered what I spend that Substack subscription money on, this is it. Thankfully, the vet is coming to us rather than the other way around. I went to his office Saturday morning to explain that I can’t transport that pig. According to the receptionist, the vet won’t have any trouble catching Onyx. He’ll use a snare on a stick, available at any farm store for thirty bucks. I wish I had known that before I nearly got my friends killed fighting a pig in the jungle. I’ve already ordered a snare stick. Maybe I should have purchased two.

That wasn’t the only pig wrestling lesson I missed out on. Sunday, Lola and I took my parents out for their fortieth anniversary. I told them the same story I wrote here. My dad looked at me with the most profound disappointment I’ve ever seen. He lived on the family hog farm from when he was born in 1962 until he and my grandparents sold it in 1989. He said that all I had to do to catch a pig was put a bucket over its head. The pig would back away, and I could steer it in reverse right into the crate. I refused to believe it was that easy, but he insisted he did it all the time with four-hundred-pound sows. He also said the largest pig a guy could manhandle with brute force like we attempted was sixty pounds. That’s where I thought I had him. I bragged that I successfully wrangled a 110 lbs. pig. He shook his head sadly. I handled that pig with another guy. That was only fifty-five pounds per person, five pounds below the limit. I had disappointed him again. I need to get Onyx into a crate one more time: when I send him to his forever home. On that day, I’ll save a bucket for my dad and he can show me how it’s done. Either he’ll be vindicated, or I will. I’m the one who writes the newsletter, so I have a feeling I’ll come out looking pretty good.

***

My sci-fi sequel, The Gods of Spenser Island, comes out June 18th. If this is how exciting I can make a real life battle with a pig, imagine what I could do when I’m allowed to make up whatever I want. Get ready for the most epic sword-on-alien-octopus fights of your life. Grab it here: The Book.

Pick Main Street Books/Second Flight Books for a signed copy. All profits will go into my pig castration fund, which is just my bank account.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James