Last week, I wrote about my upcoming vacation and how the last couple of summer trips had some mishaps that occurred that had left me feeling less than relaxed and rejuvenated. In the end, I had the audacity to ask, “What could possibly go wrong this time?”
I expected some karmic pushback. I expected that a small storm might tear through while my sister was alone with two kids at the ocean, trying to wrap up a tent in 25-mile-an-hour gusts and pouring rain – which happened. I figured there may be some trauma at home, like a broken pool pump that would leave my pool a lovely day-glo green – which also happened. I even prepared for my son to break a bone – which may or may not have happened. He felt that the knowledge of whether or not he had snapped another toe was not worth the hours spent waiting for an x-ray. Thankfully, I had purchased a new first aid kit, just for this trip.
What I hadn’t prepared for was the death of my pet pig, Stella Blue. I know, that’s not funny. In fact, it was awful. When our caretaker let us know that Stella was not doing well, my husband and I took turns caring for her, each leaving the vacation house and our family and tag-teaming her care. While waiting for a vet to come, we tried everything to help. But still, Stella suffered quite a bit and took her last breath before the doctor arrived.
I cried while we dug her grave, tears mixing with sweat and dirt, in the 90-degree midday sun. I cried while I apologized to her and dropped shovels full of dirt on her wrecked body. I cried when my husband used our stone pig statue to mark her grave. I cried while I showered away the mud and misery, wishing I had been able to help her. I cried for the loss of my very first baby, who would have turned 17 this fall.
So why am I writing this? Because while she was alive, my Stella Blue was a mix of sassy teen and grumpy curmudgeon. She was smart as a whip with the soul of a firecracker. In her lifetime, she was the subject of some of our most epic stories, the kind that will go down in history and be a part of family lore, for generations to come. Stella came into our lives when we were young and stupid. We had just bought our first house, an exciting time. Except that it turned out our “home sweet home” was full of hidden problems. For example, the pink and silver striped wallpaper was not only a sight so painful that it burned the eyes, it also hid several holes in the wall.
On one particular “day of discovery,” our stress level was pretty high and we found ourselves at the local pet and feed store. In hindsight, I can’t really explain why, as we had no pets and needed no feed. Anyway, there was the sign: “Baby Pigs.” Have you ever seen a baby pig in real life? Because if you have, you probably own one. They are, quite possibly, the cutest things on the face of the earth. When I met Stella, she fit in the palm of my hand. She was three days old and I would have given the farm-lady my soul to bring that piglet into my life. Instead, I gave her $300 and waited eight long weeks for Stella to be ready to come home. From the start, she knew what she wanted and would not really take no for an answer. Stella even had her own room (remember, she was my first baby.) When we left for work, we filled the space with food, water and toys. But she wasn’t really fond of being confined to that space.
So one day, she ate the wall.
Honestly, I was surprised that pigs had teeth at all, let alone ones strong enough and sharp enough to go through sheetrock. It was quite a surprise and, though I learned a lesson that day, I feel like I could have gone a long time without that knowledge.
As she grew, Stella remained an indoor animal. She loved grapes and apples and felt angry when Brian cooked bacon. I may have mentioned that my husband has quite the bacon addiction. He did have to quell that a bit after one Sunday when Stella had had enough. While he stood at the stove, forks in hand, flipping the strips, our piglet walked into the kitchen, turned around, backed up to his leg and proceeded to pee all over his foot. I admired her communication skills. She lost her bedroom, and most of her indoor privileges, after she ate a chair, ripped our couch, and tore the lapel off the only suit my husband owned. However, we made her a lovely (and huge) outdoor pen, replete with an Igloo doghouse and protection from any and all animals. She was free to roam the yard and she happily transferred her wall eating skills over to hosta eating.
I have never seen an animal love a plant like Stella loved hostas. They were like piggy crack. I could hardly keep her away from the huge plot that grew around one of our tree groves. When I was 8.89 months pregnant, I came out back to find she had eaten not one, not two, but 11 of them to the ground. I may have had some harsh things to say in response. After getting her back in her pen and cleaning up what was left of my hostas, I waddled to the house and found a police officer at my front door.
Our neighbor at the time was not super fond of us (or super sane) and had called the police and said that I had threatened to kill him. I’m not sure it sounded much better when I tried to explain that I was, in fact, threatening the life of my pet. But I think my tremendous belly and the semi-wild look in my eye either convinced the cop or scared him away. Either way, I learned to keep Stella away from hostas, for both of our sakes.
When we sold that house and moved, we were presented with a dilemma, as Stella was not a good traveler. And by that I mean that whenever she got into a moving vehicle, she pooped. At this point, she was full grown and though piglet droppings aren’t too bad, 200-pound-pig poop is very bad. We enlisted a friend with a pick-up truck to help with the move. We secured Stella’s crate to the bed of the truck and had him drive the short distance along the LIE to get her to her new abode, with Brian riding shotgun.
Did I mention that Stella was smart? Did I also mention that she wasn’t a fan of confinement? They had to pull over at least twice when she figured out how to open the crate and was rifling through the items in the bed of the truck, much to the shock and awe of other drivers on the highway.
Once settled in our new home, Stella developed a fear/phobia/hatred of concrete. She would not leave the confines of our lawn. Though we enjoyed not having to provide her with a fence, we often forgot that no one else knew of Stella’s unusual hatred. People often stopped at the house to share their concern that Stella would run away. (Yes, actually, she could run pretty fast).
One morning, I was making pancakes for my kids. It couldn’t have been much past 8 a.m. and I was still in full pajama mode. As a matter of fact, I had not even brushed my teeth, was rocking some pretty gnarly coffee breath, and had a large smattering of pancake batter on my polar bear, flannel pants.
I opened the door to bring in my barking dogs, and waved to the nice policeman in front of my house. As I started to close the door, he yelled, “Wait!”
I was unprepared for that.
“I’m guessing that’s not yours?” We both followed his pointing finger and found Stella, chomping away on some leaves, oblivious to our stares.
“Oh! Nope, she’s mine!”
“Really? Because I just received an anonymous 911 call about a pig on the loose.”
Ten minutes later, me, my pancake-y pjs, and my halitosis were chatting with at least three lovely, and very intrigued, officers. I was giving them a brief lecture on porcine behavior, while they petted a completely disinterested (and borderline ornery) Stella.
Like I said, she gave us some epic stories.
So thank you, Stella Blue, for bellyache-inducing laughter, surprisingly forceful cuddling (they have super-strong snouts), and for trusting me to be your mom. You were the Queen of the Nigro yard and we will never be the same without you. Until we meet again, my girl.
Stella’s love of hostas made it difficult to keep them in our yard. But if you don’t have a pig roaming your property, hostas are a low maintenance and shade loving plant that looks good almost anywhere.
According to the National Gardening Association, “Apply a thin layer of compost each spring, followed by a 2-inch layer of mulch to retain moisture and control weeds. Water plants during the summer if rainfall is less than 1 inch per week. After the first killing frost, cut plant back to an inch or two above soil line.”
And keep them away from pigs on the loose.
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Laurie Nigro, is the mother of two biological children and one husband. She also takes care of a menagerie of animals that leave throw-up around for her to step in in the middle of the night. Laurie’s passionate about frugal, natural living, which is a nice way of saying she’s a kombucha-brewing, incense-burning, foodie freak who tries really hard not to spend money on crap made by child laborers. You can hear her rant about her muse (aka husband) and other things that have no bearing on your life, in this space each Sunday.
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