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It wasn’t a graceful act. Mr. Oinks used to be on the light end of a micro mini pig, which was to say that he was comfortably in the fifteen-pound arena. Now, he was inching up in size, and getting him up on the bed would soon require a firm stance, proper squat and a back brace.
“You’re getting fat,” I mumbled. He settled onto the bed and grunted, his nose rooting through my blankets until he found an edge and belly-wriggled his way underneath. He settled into place, his back hooves sticking out from the edge of the comforter, and I laughed, slipping my hand under and finding his ears, giving them a quick scratch.
I lay there for a long moment, the morning light beginning to trickle across my bedroom wall. Today, I had to swing by the craft store and I was taking Ansley’s kids to the park. If Declan’s house was vehicle-free, I’d return his trash before I picked up them. I reached over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. From underneath the cover, I felt warm breath puff along my calf. I called out a warning to Mr. Oinks and moved my leg away.
That’s the only problem with a pig. They think everything is food, and strawberry scented leg lotion? That’s their crackpipe.
I had two texts from Ansley, both sent within the last hour.
My baking attempt has turned into a clusterfuck. I’ve got a ruined pie for your pig if you want it.
I smiled and opened her second text.
I cannot believe my life has turned into the sort of situation where I am sending texts like this. Why am I trying to cook pies? And WHY DO YOU HAVE A PIG?!
There was a series of emojis that combined barfing, eye rolls and lots of facepalming. I hit reply.
I don’t expect you to understand the finer things in life. You own a jetski for piglet’s sake.
Her response came quick.
Don’t spit pig slang at me or I swear to God, I’ll stop stocking the house with Sunkist.
I snorted in response, and I swear on Jesus, that wasn’t intended to be a pun.
ontday ebay tupidsay. Ouyay ovelay unkistsay ootay.
I sent the pig-Latin then sat up in bed, kicking the covers loose and looking at Mr. Oinks. “You in the mood for pie?”
“You shouldn’t have fed him pie.” Two hours after Mr. Oinks’ ingestion of Ansley’s pie, the vet peered at me over his distended pig belly. This guy had really pretty eyes. Bright blue.
Mr. Oinks groaned, and my concern reared its head, pushing thoughts of the sexy vet off the table and into the trash pile. “I thought pigs liked pie. He likes… well, he likes everything.” What I didn’t say, but seems entirely noteworthy, is that I had a friend who visited Exuma and fed an entire island of pigs HOT DOGS, which they gobbled up with enthusiasm, and didn’t seem at all unhealthy from it. And at the farm I’d purchased Mr. Oinks from, I’d watched them upend an entire trash can of slop that seemed to contain every food known to man, and hadn’t received a single word of warning about pie. I’d shared pizza, subs, lasagna, scrambled eggs, and half of every one of my sister’s culinary attempts with him, and he’d never so much as grunted in protest.
“It was the rhubarb.” Dr. Diablo straightened, hanging his stethoscope around his neck. “It’s extremely toxic to pigs.”
Toxic didn’t sound good. Mr. Oinks looked at me and I could feel his pain, not in the same magical guardian angel way, but in a horrible, I-am-a-terrible-parent and my-pig-blames-me-for-his-stomach-ache pain. I patted his side tenderly. “What could happen?”
“Well, right now he’s having some oxalic acid poisoning. That’s what’s causing his muscles to twitch and his panting. Also, his heart is racing.” He reached for my hand and placed it higher on his ribcage, holding it there. “Feel that?”
I could. Underneath my palm, Mr. Oinks’ heart was jumping, a rapid bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. I moved closer, my fingers curving around his warm skin, and I could feel the edge of a hysteria attack pushing closer. Toxic. My alarm ramped up. “Could he—is he going to die?” I should have brought Ansley with me. She’s better with stuff like this. When Roger’s colon got blocked last spring, she was the one who spoke to the doctors, she was the one who received the terrifying news that surgery was immediate and life-savingly necessary. I was in charge of bringing us magazines, flipping the channel on the TV, and bitching at nurses for extra Jell-O. I can’t… I can’t lose Mr. Oinks.
With everything in my life, he’s the only real thing that I have, the only thing that depends on me.
“I don’t think he’s going to die.” He lifted his hand off mine. “It’s good that you brought him in right away. Pumping his stomach was the most important thing, and now that that’s done, we can get good fluids in him and get him back on his feet.”
