Michigan is interesting sometimes.

I am still very crazy busy, so thought I would recycle a post from 2005. I hope to be back to Bug Blogging soon.  This is one of my favorite stories to tell, and thought you might enjoy the trip down memory lane.
———————–

Sunday morning at 8am, Mr. Bug and I are happily snoozing.
Suddenly: BLAM BLAM BLAM!
Someone is banging on the front door. And there is this terrible, strange screaming noise.

“OMG!” I think. “Someone ran over one of the neighbors’ idiot redneck children!”

I throw on some pants, rush to the door, and there is a blond woman on the front steps. She says: “Hi! Is this your pig?”

She’s holding a very hairy, extremely pissed-off looking Vietnamese pig, who does indeed have a pot belly. It’s probably a 45 lb. pig, and it lets out a little squeal every 20 seconds or so just to let us know that it is, in fact, one of the more intelligent mammals, and is fully conscious of the indignities to which is is being subjected to at this very minute.

Apparently Mr. Pig had been scurrying about the road in front of my house. The nice lady stopped, rather than hitting him, scooped him up and brought him to me. I declined an offer to acquire a pig (cheap!) and she plopped the pig in her lap and drove off in her Sedan.
She says she’ll post a flyer at the party store with her phone on it, in case you are missing a VPBP.

Sometimes living in rural Michigan is pretty entertaining.

6 thoughts on “Michigan is interesting sometimes.

  1. “Hi! Is this your pig?”

    I can’t think of a situation in my life where I would find it necessary to answer “yes” to that question. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I could safely tattoo “No, that’s not my pig” on my forehead and never have to worry about it being contradicted.

  2. Hee hee! Aw. I want a pig. And a horse. And goats and sheep and chickens and maybe, just maybe, a dairy cow.

  3. As the owner of a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, I’m just surprised the woman could carry the pig. Our pig Maisie, who’s now officially a senior pig at 13 years of age, is a “big boned gal.” The only one who could carry her would be Paul Bunyon.

    People are always surprised that we live in Los Angeles and have a “farm animal” lounging in front of the fire with our two dogs. My neighbor has chickens, and on some mornings I’m convinced that I live in rural Michigan – or Vietnam.

  4. We don’t own pigs or goats or chickens, but I often inform the dogs that – in case of famine – they should consider themselves to be the emergency rations.

  5. You didn’t mention that the pig (named Arnold — no, really) would periodically wander down the road to pay us a visit after that. I remember spending quality time with Arnold on occasion; he was a pig with rare charm.

Comments are closed.