While belatedly attending a pig-keeping course, a conversation with the wise old boy running it opened my eyes to the reality of our situation. He believed the long-standing interest in pigs, and the money that the idea of a miniaturised version could command, led some people in the business to cut corners. ‘Minipigs aren’t a recognised registered breed,’ he told me. ‘Anyone can mate two small-sized pigs, but there’s no guarantee that the offspring will stay small. That would take generations of strictly controlled breeding. Maybe we’ll see such a thing in thirty or forty years from now,’ he added, though it offered little comfort. ‘But what you have are two mixed-breed pigs.’ As for their status as brother and sister, the man took one look at the photograph I showed him and chuckled to himself.
So the minipigs were a myth, it seemed. Piglets passed off for profit. A unicorn for our age, or perhaps just for people like us who were drawn to the idea of a pig as a pet. Yes, small breed pigs exist, like the Vietnamese pot belly and the kunekune, but much depends on your concept of size. The idea of any adult pig that could fit inside a handbag is nonsense. In fact, an adult pig could have that kind of thing for lunch if you left it lying around. The fact was Butch and Roxi were two very expensive bog-standard mongrels. But despite it all, we cared for them deeply. In a way their presence served to bring us closer together as a family under fire.
Now, we’re not the kind of people who would ever give up on their pets. It was hard work, but Emma and I learned a great deal about responsible pig-keeping, and that has its own rewards. Winston Churchill once observed that in looking a pig in the eye you will find an equal peering back at you. I’m not so sure. Those times I levelled with Butch and Roxi, usually in pleading with them to just give me one day without grief, I found two grunting creatures meeting my gaze with more lust for life and sheer determination than I could ever muster. It was also a bonding experience. We were in this together, man and pig. Throughout, my wife and I always wanted to do the right thing for them. We had been ill-prepared and enchanted in equal measure. And yet no matter how much they tested us, Butch and Roxi’s welfare was always our priority.
I can console myself a little by the fact that we weren’t alone in falling for the minipig myth. Other households had invited them into their homes with the very best of intentions, only to find they’d outgrow their welcome. Across the country, animal sanctuaries began to accommodate pigs that were as large as they were lonely and sad, which was the last thing we wanted to do. Our pigs were a part of our lives, even if they had come to dominate every aspect of it. Emma and I agreed that Butch and Roxi had just as much right as us to a happy and fulfilling existence, and we pledged to do everything we could to furnish that for them.
The unexpected genius of pigs
A long time has passed since I called myself a pig-keeper. The emotional scars have healed and the grass has come back with a vengeance, thanks to all that compost. I can look back on this episode in our lives with fond memories, and even smile to myself at some of the escapades that left me seething at the time. As well as encouraging us to give up eating meat, thanks to a heightened respect for animals and their welfare, it’s left me with a fascination about what makes pigs tick. We invited a pair into our world and they trashed it, but what’s it like in their world?
Now that I have pig-free time and space to think, I’m interested in finding out more about life through their eyes. I have no doubt, from my face off with a pair who had my measure from the start, that this is a species with hidden depths. I’m not suggesting a pig has a penchant for algebra, painting or poetry, but there’s something extraordinary going on between those ears that I’m keen to explore. In some ways, I think, it’s a perfect storm of instinct and intelligence that means when a pig puts its mind to something it always gets what it wants.
Pigs aren’t just smart, they’re also strikingly sociable. Butch and Roxi were inseparable and, though not siblings, were they companions by necessity or genuine soulmates? Roxi would regularly use her size and heft advantage to shove Butch from the feeding trough, while our boar was quicker on his trotters and could scurry away with an apple in his jaws before she could catch up. So, they jostled for food and yet served as comfort blankets for each other at night in a kind of intimate snout-to-backside arrangement.
As for escaping and running away, I could guarantee that no matter where Butch and Roxi ended up, I would always find them together. So do pigs form loyal friendships as we do, or undertake feuds with one another? And what’s with the need for a partner in crime? Can they love and loathe, offer comfort, or share wisdom and advice? Are they playful or mischievous, truly lazy or actually greedy, as we often say when suggesting someone is behaving like a pig? Free from the technology that links us, how do they communicate and what do they say? And what is it that drives them to dig from dawn to dusk in order to unearth a single acorn? It’s all a mystery to me, but one I’d like to pick apart in a spirit of curiosity and enthusiasm in order to understand them better.
With help from people who have looked a pig in the eye far deeper than I ever managed, I intend to learn more than I did from all the mistakes I made as a reluctant keeper. Not just about pigs and their personalities – and we’ll meet quite a few – but what it means to connect with these animals and to recognise that they lead lives that can be just as complex, challenging and rewarding as our own.
2
Windows to the soul
Looking a pig in the eye, as Churchill famously discovered, can be an unnerving experience. Levelling with a dog in the same way will instinctively tell you that you’re in charge, while most cats simply turn away dismissively, but a pig prompts pause for thought. Nose to snout, gazing into those little orbs you’ll find a depth of contemplation to match your own. A pig will blink just like you, batting eyelashes like the wings of a resting butterfly, and invite you to glimpse a spirit as shining and sophisticated as your own.
They’ll also grunt, in a primal way, as if to remind you of their origins.
A pig in time
The ancestral line from today’s domestic pig dates back between nine and 13,000 years to the European Wild Boar. Still in existence today, these are powerful, bristle-backed beasts, long in the skull and often dark in colouring compared to their pink and hairless cousins. They stand on broad shoulders that taper towards their hind legs, like a large breed dog in a heavyweight division.
Also known as Sus scrofa, variations of the wild boar can now be found from Africa to Asia, the Far East to Australia, and in a variety of habitats, including forest, scrub and swampland.
They live in groups and move around depending on what resources are available to them. For a variety of reasons, wild boars are drawn to areas of dense vegetation. In short, their world revolves around three elements: food, water and protection. They can find this in undergrowth and beneath leaf canopies near rivers and streams, but it’s also something humans can provide – which is where the connection between us was first forged.
In a bid to find out more about what drew the boar into our world, I visited Michael Mendl, Professor of Animal Behaviour and Welfare, a recognised expert in the cognition, emotion, individuality and social behaviour of domestic animals. He’s also a man who is passionate about pigs. A warm, softly spoken and thoroughly engaging individual, Professor Mendl opens the door to his office at the Bristol Veterinary School wearing a T-shirt and jeans. This is my kind of academic. And when he gets on to our chosen subject, I am delighted to learn that his immense knowledge base also comes with recognition that we can never know precisely what makes another animal tick – and that within this mystery lies some magic.