Onyx is (Almost) Gone

Newsletter 2026-07-19

My apologies, everyone. I accidentally had Monday's free email behind a paywall. Here it is again, this time with the correct settings. This news is too good not to be shared.

Onyx has a new home. We just have to get him there. Otherwise, he’s staying here, and I’ll be the one leaving when my wife throws me out on the street.

It happened fast. After two years and two months of nothing but rejections, someone agreed to take Onyx, the foster pig with nowhere else to go. Last week, I told you how I showed up in person at the one and only pig rescue in Indiana. They referred me to their intake coordinator, who turned me down by phone. After a lifetime of writing, plus four years of asking girls to dances in high school, I’m used to rejection, but that one still stung. It hurts more when it means another week of shoveling extra pig poop. The intake coordinator left me with a kernel of hope: She referred me to another animal rescue that covered multiple species. I called them and left a message. The next day, they called back. The woman on the phone readily agreed to take Onyx. I didn’t have to beg or offer bribes. She actually wanted this pig. It felt like a trap. I had managed to contact her in the golden window after she opened her rescue but before it filled up with unwanted adult potbelly pigs. I suspect that, in another few months, they’ll have thousands of the animals and will have to stop accepting new surrenders, just like every other pig rescue on the planet. It’s my mission to get Onyx there before that happens. Too bad the universe has other plans.

Not only did the new rescue agree to take Onyx, but they said they would pick him up. This was a full service experience. They’re either angels or scammers. The jury is still out on which one. My contact offered to come and get Onyx after she asked what sort of transportation capabilities I had on my end. I offered to drive Onyx in a big pet carrier stuffed in the back of my daughter’s minivan. Apparently that’s not the preferred method for hauling miniature livestock. The rescue woman said she would drive over with her trailer since she was originally from my area and was always looking for an excuse to visit. Wanting to return to this part of Indiana is about as rare as wanting an adult pig. It’s possible I’ve actually been talking to AI this whole time. Putting aside my suspicions, I was relieved I wouldn’t have to use Betsy’s minivan to drive Onyx. He undoubtedly would have pooped and peed the entire way. Afterward, we would have had to burn the minivan and Betsy would have been back to walking everywhere. By agreeing to pick up Onyx, the rescue woman saved me thousands of dollars and Betsy thousands of steps. The rescue woman said her quarantine pens, where she temporarily confined new animals to screen for illness, would be full until the middle of the week, but that she could retrieve Onyx the following weekend. After twenty-six months of waiting, that minor postponement was the least of my problems. I said I’d be ready and waiting whenever she got here. Perhaps I was too amenable to the hold-up. I accidentally manifested an even bigger delay.

A few days later, my phone buzzed for a new text. I could sense disaster before I opened it. The message was long. The mysterious, miraculous, heroic pig rescuer had fallen and torn tendons in her shoulder. She was scheduled for surgery, after which she would be unable to drive for weeks. She asked if it would be okay if we delayed the pickup of Onyx for a little longer. Of course I accepted her terms. I had exactly zero other options. None of the other seven billion people on the planet wanted this pig. The pig rescue isn’t that far away by Midwestern standards. I’m not going to disclose the exact distance lest someone reading this newsletter discover it and fill it up with all their unwanted small swine. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say that I could drive there, even if it had to be in an old minivan that I would have to throw away afterward. At this point, it would be worth it. The woman declined to have me drive Onyx. She thought it wouldn’t be good for him. People who dedicate their lives to saving animals don’t like to see those animals subjected to the cruelties of riding in the back of a minivan. Those same protections don’t extend to my children. I told her that I would wait however long it took and wished her well. That’s where things stand now. We’re in a holding pattern, but with justified hope. If something bad happens to her when she goes into surgery, I’ll burn down the world.

Her accident raised many questions in my mind. I don’t actually know anything about her, if she exists at all and isn’t a software program using up all the water in a distant county. The nature of her injury makes me wonder if she’s elderly and frail. If she’s not AI, she must be a human and not a metaphysical being. Angels don’t have tendons to tear. If she is elderly, I’ll feel even more pathetic than usual. I’m relying on a frail, geriatric woman to rescue me from my bulldozer of a foster pig. Then again, she could be in her forties but clumsy, just like me. I’ve certainly suffered worse injuries from far less. I’m the guy who nearly died from an ingrown butt hair. Just yesterday, Lola was fondly retelling that story at a niece’s birthday party. Maybe “fondly” isn’t the right word. Some traumas have to be shared. The “in sickness and in health” part of the wedding vows is left vague for a reason. Lola didn’t leave me when she had to pack the leftover wound with gauze, and she didn’t leave me over Onyx. I’d like to keep it that way. I’ve never fallen and torn tendons in my shoulder, but I have hurt myself yawning and getting out of bed. For all I know, this person’s fall was just a euphemism for something more dramatic. Perhaps she was battling a pig even bigger and stronger than Onyx. Maybe it wasn’t a pig at all. It’s possible she also rescues alligators. Somebody has to fill the void Steve Irwin left behind.

The last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster. The worst drops were when I had to share the bad news with Lola. I’m used to telling her about unfortunate happenings, and she’s certainly used to hearing about them. After all, she’s married to me. Giving her good news and then reversing it is out of the ordinary. Usually, it’s just bad news all the way down. It was cruel of me to get her hopes up. She has been beyond patient. She has a hard limit of two pigs in this house. That’s two pigs further than almost any other wife would ever go. I’m a lucky man. When I asked to go above that two-pig limit to save Onyx’s life, she agreed under the binding condition that it be a temporary arrangement. I intend to honor that request. She stayed with me when two months turned into two years. That’s why I’ve been so dogged with getting Onyx to his next destination. I’m not a good person, but I try to keep my word. If I say there will be a bear at your wedding, there will be a bear at your wedding. If I say pig number three won’t be here forever, then I’ll find someplace else to put him, no matter how long it takes or how many shoulder tendons get torn along the way.

The pigs have no idea about the monumental changes that are coming. Onyx continues to walk around as the irritable but dominant leader of the herd. My two permanent pigs, Gilly and Luna, never agreed to have a guest in the first place. As far as they knew, they were the only pigs in existence. I don’t know how much they remember from right after they were born when they were among other piglets for a few weeks. I imagine that pigs don’t think much about the past or the future. They live in the here and now, focused solely on eating. They are truly my spirit animals.

From Gilly and Luna’s perspective, Onyx materialized out of nowhere. For the first few hours, they ignored each other. Then, they fought viciously. After that, they settled into a routine where Onyx was a grumpy jerk to them and they mostly avoided him. Two years later, they’ve gotten to the point where they can eat next to each other and sleep in the same room, but on opposite sides of it on separate piles of blankets. If those piles get too close together, Onyx steals everything to make one big mound for himself while chasing the girls out of the house. It’s like dealing with a group of toddlers with tusks. Thankfully, those face blades are mostly for show. Onyx is aggressive with the other pigs, but he’s harmless to people. He squeals with annoyance when I come near him but never attacks. If he did, he would have been out on the street two years ago. He’s not a bad pig. He just doesn’t know how to play well with other pigs and has no intention of learning. Luckily for him, he’ll get a new chance at the rescue. He’ll be put in a giant pasture with other animals where he can sort out his issues. He might discover the power of friendship, or maybe he’ll just decide to mark out a patch of grass for himself and stay there alone for the rest of his days. The future is his, assuming we can get him there. I should call that shoulder surgeon to make sure he understands the stakes.

If these piles were any closer together, there would be a war.

As with everything else I do, I feel some guilt about the upcoming transition. I wish I had Onyx in better shape. When we got him, he was covered in dust and mostly bald, having blown his coat immediately after the fire. His tusks and hooves were both overgrown, and he hadn’t been neutered. In short, he was a mess, as is usually the case with anyone who still has their testicles. The first thing we did after rescuing him was schedule a vet visit. She knocked him out, neutered him, and trimmed his tusks and hooves. After his coat grew back, thick and full, he was handsome. As his stay here dragged on, we had to schedule a second vet visit to do his tusks and hooves again. Thankfully, his testicles didn’t grow back. If we had to pay for a second neutering, I’d be very upset. So would Onyx.

I had hoped to move him on before he needed a third grooming. I failed to beat the deadline. I called the vet to schedule yet another visit, but she was on maternity leave. Her backup was willing to knock out Onyx to do his hooves but not his tusks. I’d have to schedule a second visit with a second house call and tranquilizer charge for that. I decided to try to unload Onyx as-is. When the wonderful rescue woman picks up Onyx, assuming that ever happens, he’ll look like I’ve been neglecting him for the last two years. He’s once again blown his coat in the summer heat, and his hooves and tusks are overgrown. His tusks were supposed to slow down after he was neutered. He might have a secret third ball that the vet missed. I warned the rescuer about his appearance and apologized profusely. She said it wasn’t a big deal. Her rescue has a farrier visit four times a year to groom all the pigs. The only aspect of pig care they have trouble with is neutering since they have to take the pigs to a distant facility. Assuming the mysterious third ball isn’t real, I’ve at least taken care of that part. Hopefully, in a few weeks, Onyx will be at the new facility scheduled for a proper makeover. I look forward to writing a newsletter about Onyx leaving without the word “almost” in the title. Until then, the rescue lady needs to be encased in bubble wrap and surrounded by a security team. If anyone is worthy of a Secret Service detail, it’s her.

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

James