After three months of pig ownership, I feel a little pig review is in order.
The first thing I would like to say is that my estimation of the mental capacities of swine has changed. Pigs are not intelligent creatures at all. Or if they are, any cleverness they have is over-ridden and crushed to an unrecognisable muddy pulp by their slavery to piggish instincts. I recognise that it must be hard to project the aura of a University Challenge contestant whilst snorting belly-deep in mud, with sticky grey cereal-mash plastered all over one’s hay-spiked head, but even so….
In my efforts to objectively estimate the intelligence quotient of our Three Not-So-Little Pigs I have taken into account the following evidence:
Signs of Intelligence
1. Capable of learning from others’ experience (Yoda), and
2. Capable of learning to perform tricks to gain treats (Fogarty) (see Not Pigs, Again).
3. Able to anticipate where food will be put, and of running to the right place in a straight line, to get there ahead of other pigs who are busy following the human food-carrier. (Peppa)
4. Able to communicate (very loudly indeed) their irritation at our failure to stick to routine feeding times, and provide food at the times they expect it.
5. Able to choose which of their two houses to sleep in depending on the direction of the cold wind.
6. Able to remember that the big green bucket only ever contains poo, and never food.
7. Able to distinguish between creatures that might bring them food (any passing humans) and creatures of no gustatory interest whatsoever (llamas, cats, dogs).
8. Able to complete the Guardian Quick Crossword in ten minutes, when not busy eating.
Signs of Stupidity
1. Always so driven by the ‘follow-the-food-bucket’ instinct that they stand behind the gate to their pen, thus preventing it from being opened, so that said food cannot be delivered to the trough.
2. Always so driven by the ‘follow-the-food-bucket’ instinct, that they do not realise that the gate is always left open while the food is being carried to the trough, so that three times every day they miss the opportunity to escape to the wide world of free grazing and rooting.
3. Incapable of waiting for their food to be placed neatly and evenly in their trough, and always standing in the way so that food ends up on their heads instead of in the trough.
4. Incapable of realising that standing on the feet of the person carrying the food bucket does not predispose said person to think kindly of them, or allow said person to get to the trough to pour out the food.
5. Incapable of learning that standing on the edge of the water trough will always tip it up, and thus empty it of water.
6. Incapable of using charm or flattery to obtain desired outcomes.
7. Incapable of realising that constantly behaving like greedy pigs is not the way to secure human affection and thus a long life.
8. Unable to complete the Guardian Quick Crossword in ten minutes because they are always busy eating.
The second thing I would like to say is that, despite their overwhelming piggishness and lack of demonstrable finer qualities, our Three Not-So-Little Pigs can, on a good day, be quite engaging. We have our little routines, and following the thrice-daily battle of the bucket, once all the food has been thoroughly and rather grossly consumed, amidst much violent pushing, shoving and squealing, each of the Three take a little time to show me another, slightly less piggish side to themselves.
Fogarty regularly bounces up to me to complain of the harsh treatment he receives at the trotters of the two Big Ladies, in a two-minute discourse on the trials and tribulations of being the Smallest Pig. I pat his affronted head and sympathize with his disgruntlement, until he calms down and soothes himself by rubbing his food-splattered ears against my wellingtons. And when he has said his porky piece, and knows that he has been heard, he runs off again to play spaghetti-root tug-of-war in the mud.
A few minutes later, Yoda appears quietly grunting at my side and, in an un-piggy-characteristic way, looks up at me through mud-mascara’d lashes to ask how things are going. I talk about the weather, and mutter my regret that the ground is so hard, or wet, or muddy, and that there is so little piggy fun to be had at this time of year, and Yoda nods her head and grunts her agreement, before turning round to present me with her broad bristly back, for a little bit of scratching, if I would be so kind.
Peppa is probably the most piggy of our pigs, and tends only to approach us voluntarily when there is a sniff of grub in the air. But she too likes a good back scratch, and has been known to hold me hostage in the pen, by wedging her enormous weight precisely across the opening end of the gate, and utterly refusing to move until she has had her fill of dorsal friction. A stubborn, chubby pig is indeed a Thing of Heaviness, which no amount of pushing will budge. All I could do was walk away, and pretend to be doing something interesting in another part of the pen until her curiosity got the better of her. Seems I might have learnt something useful from all that time I spent working with delinquent adolescents after all.
