Xavier

I was taken from my mother when I was just a baby. Little did I know at the time that it was part of the great plan and that there was much more to my destiny than just being a little suckling pig on a little farm in the country. My first memory is of waking up warm, with my brothers and sisters, all nestled underneath my mother's arm. We pushed and prodded our way to get to her milk. It was warm and creamy, sweet, and it smelled just like my mother. I loved her. She was large and soft, and warm and protective. But that memory is a short one, for after I was only two days old, I was taken.

There are times in our lives when we think that what is to happen to us is terrible fortune. Sometimes it is only in hindsight that we realize that what we had regarded as bad luck turns out to be serendipitous. So it was with me on the day that the large black utility vehicle pulled up to Wildflower Farm. Wildflower Farm is not a traditional farm. By that I mean that the purpose of the farm was to raise stock and food, but over the years, that was no longer sustainable, so Wildflower Farm turned into a agri-tourism farm, which is a farm that is less about production and more about showing itself off to tourists. Don and Betty own Wildflower Farm. They came to birth me, and they cared for me for those first two days of my childhood.

When the black SUV appeared at Wildflower Farm, I didn't even know enough of the world to be afraid of it. Out had stepped a woman wearing aviator sunglasses and long blonde hair. The man she was with looked much older, handsome, and he trailed behind her so that even being so young, I knew it must have been her idea to visit the farm, and that he was just along for the ride. What changed my life, though, was the one who didn't seem to fit. She climbed out of the car last, and she was skinny, with black curly hair, blue on the ends. I thought to myself that her hair must come from her father, as she looked nothing like the blonde lady with the aviator glasses. Her arms were always crossed across her chest, and she wore thick black boots which made her skinny legs look even more spindly, like a chicken standing on two large rocks.

It was the blonde who stole me. She and her husband had arranged for Betty and Don to take the three of them on a tour of the farm. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I could smell the pungent clover in the air. It smelled delicious, like flowers and grass, and I imagined how tender and sweet it would be to take a mouthful and gently chew at it while lounging in the fields with my brothers and sisters. Betty had picked me up into her arms in a little flannel blanket to show to the visitors, but she hadn't bargained on the older man reaching into his wallet and pulling out a large wad of cash. Don said I was not for sale, but when the stack grew larger, Betty caught his eye and said that maybe we could spare a little piglet if it was to the right home. It was the blonde who wanted me. She thought it would be cute to bring me home, like her very own baby. I didn't know what was happening at the time. Maybe it was a grace, for had I known that I would never see my brothers and sisters again, I surely would have cried my eyes out. Even now, I miss the protective weight of my dear mother's soft underbelly when we all nestled in to get closer or to get a swallow of her sweet milk.

Anyway, the blonde woman's fascination was short-lived. My new home was a grand house in the country. It looked like French country house, with exposed wood and a sunny, pleasant interior. But I wasn't feeling well. I grew weak and tired without my mother's milk, and I didn't have the iron I needed in my blood to have energy, or to become fast and strong. I am still embarrassed to say it, even though it wasn't my fault: I had accidents on the beautiful cork flooring in the entryway of the country house. That was when the rift developed.

"Ohmygod, get it off floor!"

     It was the blonde woman, screaming.  I didn't even know that 'it' was me until she used a sharp broom to jab at me. My skin was still fuzzy and soft and tender, and the bristles of the broom broke my tender pink skin so that my side was dotted with a tiny, bloody brush burn. I was frightened and used my only defense, my teeth, to protect myself, biting the hand of the tall man who had scooped me up. This also drew blood and caused him to drop me outside, where I froze, lonely and afraid.

Strangely, I feel as though it was the rejection of the blonde woman, who I eventually learned was the dark-haired girl's stepmother, that earned me a place in the dark-haired girl's heart. After the ruckus died down, the front door opened again, and I saw that it was the girl, who was holding a little saucer of milk and who placed it on the floor, several feet away from me, in an attempt to lure me closer to her. It worked. I was so overcome by weakness and hunger and coldness that I'd have done anything for comfort, so when I finally gathered up enough courage to drink from the dish, I had none left to fight being swept up in the arms of the black-and-blue haired girl. That was how we became friends.

      I became a baby to the girl, and she named me Xavier, which she shortened to “X.”  Her name was Miranda, but she was called Mir. I suppose we get what we need in life sometimes, and Mir and I became fast friends. I needed someone to take care of me and provide me attention, and Mir needed someone to take care of her, and to do the same for her. That night at dinner, there was a conversation about taking me back to the farm. When Mir’s stepmother said that I did not belong at the house. I was worried because Mir showed no sign of concern. But after dinner, she took the sweet polenta that she had not eaten from her plate and gave it to me. She created a little bed in the hay and brought out a tiny space heater to use while she was there, so that I was always as warm as I had been under my mother’s hocks.

I took care of Mir, in return. I could tell when she was sad because she would come out to the barn and run her hands over the baby hairs on my back and head and stroke me, absently. I knew that she needed to be out in the fresh air, and I would use my snout to nudge her until she finally would take me out for a stroll, using an old bridle that she had reconstructed to fit around my chest. This was my favorite thing. In the summer, we would walk along the old gravel road that led to the house among the poppies, red, white, and pink, the crunch of gravel under our feet, and the smell of sweet spring in the warm air.

      It was inevitable that Mir’s parents would eventually discover that I was still around. Mir went away every other weekend to be at her Mother’s house in eastern Ohio. The first time I went along, her mother discovered me, hidden among blankets in the back seat of the car. She was a kind woman, and she allowed Mir to walk me around the neighborhood. That day I was a celebrity, neighborhood kids petting me and singing to me, Mir smiling and proud. But it would not last. Mir’s mother’s neighborhood is not zoned for raising a piglet, and the local police said that I could not return, even as a weekend guest. On top of that, Mir’s mother was traveling abroad for her job, and she would miss Mir and me all that summer. When we returned to Mir’s father’s house, Mir’s mother told her father what Mir had done, that she had kept me and kept me hidden from Mir’s father and stepmother.

     To my surprise, Mir’s father was not angry. He only wrinkled his brow somewhat upon hearing the news. Mir cried, and he told Mir that I could sleep in the house that night, in a tiny box with my blankets and the heat lamp. After Mir went to bed, I could hear the voices of Mir’s father and his new blonde wife discussing what had occurred. Mir’s stepmother was furious about what she’d characterized as a lack of honesty, but Mir’s father seemed placid. He said that I’d done what a year’s worth of counseling could not have, and that was to be a friend to Mir, and to draw her out of her shell, and to encourage her to have other friends. Mir’s father said that I could stick around until at least the following spring.

      I suppose what most new pig-owners do not understand is how quickly a little piglet can grow. During that first year, I overcame my iron deficiency, thanks to Mir’s reading up on the deficiency and buying a little dropper full of iron drops that she would drop in my mouth each night. I quickly regained my appetite, and Mir began to find that I was much too large to keep in the house. Mir’s father had a pen built for me outside, where I would root in the dirt for tasty little grubs and scraps of food. The scraps were delicious, and I seemed to lack the self-control to stop eating. I gained and gained until one day I had grown into a happy, fat sow, and Miranda could no longer lift me into her arms. I was innocent until Mir’s stepmother began to talk about my being too large to remain at the house.

     Mir had grown a year older, as well, and I must admit she was less interested in showing me off. In fact, she spent less time with me on the leash, and more time getting ready for school. She had cut the blue ends off her locks, and she’d traded her clunky, black boots for sporty white tennis shoes and skirts. Her schoolwork also became more difficult, and Mir spent a lot of time learning to work on her chemistry formulas and on keeping up with her school activities.

     Now it was my turn to become melancholy. What would become of me if Mir no longer cared? Who would take care of me? I sometimes felt lonely. Mir no longer seemed to respond when I nudged her with my snout to take a walk. She occasionally came back into the barn to stroke my hair, but it was no longer soft, having grown coarse over the year. I worried that because I was no longer a cute piglet, I would be left behind. Now that she had more schoolwork, Mir would sometimes come outside and sit next to my pen and work. Her best friend, Theodore, from school would sometimes come over, and the two of them would talk over the lesson for the following day.

       It was on one of these glorious days that Theodore saw me sunning myself and asked what Mir planned to do with me upon graduation.

         “You can’t take him to college, you know.”

         Mir’s soft, delicate hand patted my head.

         “Dad and Chanelle will keep X,” Miranda said.

         Theodore adjusted his glasses. “Uh, yeah, they’ll keep X in the freezer until Good Friday, when he needs to thaw.”

         Mir punched Theodore with her elbow. Then she became quiet.

         “Seriously, Dad would never let Chanelle get rid of X.”

         Then a pause. “I really don’t think he would.”

         Theodore adjusted his glasses again. “You’re probably right,” he said.

         Then the mood just became glum.

         I didn’t feel like sunning myself anymore, and Mir didn’t want to study or talk to Theo. Theo left.

         It was the next day that Mir came home with an armful of books. She usually had plenty of books, but they were familiar to me. She pulled them out one at a time and wrote things down on papers while she read them. This stack was large and Mir brought them all out to the pen. The books were about mushrooms. Mir read and read, and from time to time, she consulted her phone for additional information. I was just glad for the company. I didn’t know that Mir had big plans for me.

         The next day, Mir and Theo came to visit. They had brought with them to the pen a tiny plastic bag, filled with what appeared to be black clods of earth. Mir pulled one out of the bag and held it under my nose. The scent was delicious and intoxicating. It smelled of my youth, nestled under my mother’s arms, and of my brothers and sisters, and the pure, loamy black earth. My mouth began to water. Theo broke off a little portion and let me have a taste. It was creamy and earthy, warm and musky. The little clod of earth, Mir said, was a truffle. And I was to become a hunter.

         The rest of the summer, we played games together, Mir and Theo and I. Mir and Theo would hide the truffles, and I was to root them out. I’ve never had a better time, happily pushing my snout into the dirt and mud, and getting hugs and snacks of truffle when I rooted one of them out.

         It got a bit harder after that, Mir and Theo put a leash on my and took me into the deep woods, where it was more difficult to catch the scent. I worried that I wouldn’t find the truffle, and that Mir and Theo might not care for me anymore, but they were patient. Each day I got a little better, and the small steps of improvement were enough to keep me from despairing. By the end of August, I had become such a good sniffer of truffles that I could smell them and pull Mir a quarter mile to the exact spot where a truffle was located. I don’t know which I liked better, the kind patting and hugs that were bestowed on me for finding the treasure, or a taste of the treasure itself, a real, soft and dense, earthy taste of truffle.

         At the very end of August, Mir’s father came out to the pen to have a talk with Mir.

         “He’s getting too big for the pen, Mir, and Chanelle and I can’t care for X the way you have. I’m thinking it may be time to say goodbye.”

         Mir was tall and slender now, and even I knew she was no longer a little girl. Still, I could swear I saw something glisten, like tears welling in Mir’s eyes. She blinked them back.

         “Dad, I’ve been working on something—watch.”

         And that one comment from Mir started a conversation that lasted all evening, and into the next day. And into the next week, and then over the next few months. Mir told her father that she wanted to start her own agri-tourism farm and that I was to be the truffle pig. Chanelle was one hundred percent against the idea, but Mir’s father was different now. He understood that while Chanelle was quixotic, Mir was resourceful. For the first time, he decided that Mir was the more responsible member of the family.

         And that is only the beginning of the story. Much happened in between, much of it too long to put into this little story. But suffice it to say that things turned out well for me. I remain alive today, munching on my sweet clover, and revered among all those who visit Mir’s farm. That doesn’t really matter too much to me. I’m happy to see Mir every weekend and to enjoy the warm sunshine and the delicious smell of truffles straight from the earth. I will tell you more about my adventures sometime, but for now, the only thing I want to tell you is to mind that what you think is misfortune is sometimes serendipitous, and that sometimes the most unlikely paths that cross can lead to the most wonder, the most adventure, the most fulfillment.