Lil Freddie

A Little Pig

A little pig died today. A little white potbellied pig, barely eighteen months old. A little white pig with sparking eyes and wagging tail who barely got to know his little world.

A little pig died today. His name was Freddie. And like too many other little potbellied pigs, Freddie was a gift not long wanted. And when someone is no longer wanted, they are abandoned. Some would say they are given away, and others might say they are thrown away, but either way, they are abandoned. So Freddie was abandoned when he was only a few months old. But, fortunately for Freddie, he found his way to Li'l Orphan Hammies, a sanctuary for unwanted potbellied pigs in Solvang, California. Freddie was lucky, for he would be taken care of by Susan Parkinson who runs the rescue.

Freddie died today, but I remember him right after he came to Li'l Orphan Hammies. He was so cute. And he was noisy, for he liked to let you know he was there. He was vociferous in informing you that he wanted your attention, for he didn't like to be alone. And sometimes Susan would take him into the house at night, and give him a shower and dry him off, and cuddle with him on the sofa. He was such a little pig, and he was very happy.

Freddie became a very quiet pig. For as he grew, he became deaf. And hearing little or nothing, he saw no reason to make any sound himself. And so he became the quietest pig ever, only occasionally making a little snort when exploring for food, or giving the slightest sigh of pleasure when being brushed or getting a belly rub.

Freddie loved attention. He would sit forever being petted or brushed. Getting a belly rub would send him into ecstasy: his eyes would close and his body would almost become liquid. And then Freddie would smile. Yes, pigs can smile, and Freddie smiled much of the time.

Even more than attention, Freddie loved treats. His favorites were grapes and watermelon. Sometimes he would follow me all over Li'l Orphan Hammies when I was doling out these fruits, and, of course, I couldn't resist giving him samples along the way, for he was most persuasive with his upturned pleading eyes, and slightly open little mouth, and happily wriggling body, excited with the anticipation of another piece of watermelon or another grape. I suppose that I gave him more than any of the other pigs, for I felt something special for him; I loved him just a little more than the others. Now I wish I had given him even more. But, of course, I can never give him any more.

Freddie was one of the gentlest creatures I have ever known. I could feed him out of my hand or let him lick my fingers and never worry. I would often sit on the ground with him and look into his eyes and he would look back into mine, and we would not move for the longest time. I felt that I was communicating with him on a level deeper than most other beings I have known. There was a mutual trust and a common peace when I was with Freddie. And there was joy, an evocation of what can be good in life.

Freddie had other friends, pig friends. There were Duke, and Spotty, and Chunk. They would run together, hunt for food together, eat together, and sleep together. Even in the middle of the day, they could be seen huddled together for a nap in the shade of one of the giant oaks that create islands of canopy at Li'l Orphan Hammies. Susan called them "The Boys",? and I often referred to them as "The Brothers", although they were not related by blood, but they were in spirit. If you were giving them a treat, they would line up in a row, patiently (for pigs), each waiting his turn for something yummy. The four of them were inseparable. Now there are only three. Susan says that they miss Freddie, especially Spotty. "They were pals", she said.

A little pig died today, and no one will ever know why. For Freddie was always the image of health and happiness. But then, all of a sudden, he wouldn't eat. He wouldn't drink. He would barely move. And after two days of retreating from the world, he stopped moving at all. He was found in his little house, quiet and still, beyond sleep, beyond life.

In the Grand Scheme of Things, that imaginary realm where fears and hopes meet and dissolve, Freddie's death may be of little significance. Placed against the thousands of beings who pass each day on this planet, Freddie's death will scarcely be noticed. His short life was observed by few, and shared by even fewer, and one cannot miss what one never knew. But I did know Freddie, and I shall miss him greatly. I shall miss talking with him, even though he couldn't hear me. I shall miss brushing and fussing over him and rubbing his belly. I shall miss giving him grapes and watermelon. I shall miss looking into his eyes. And I shall miss his smile.

The last time I saw Freddie he was sitting alone out in the field, facing away from where I stood, seemingly staring into he distance. Was he watching the magpies that flew in and out of the trees? Was he observing something in the distant hills? Or, perhaps, was he seeing into his short and imminent future? "He's in his own little world," Susan said, looking at him lovingly. And now, beyond any doubt, he is there eternally.

A little pig died today. But, somewhere, a little pig was born. A little potbellied pig like Freddie who will be unwanted and then rescued and then made happy. And it is to these new little pigs, along with old friends who remain, that I shall turn my attention. But no matter how many pigs there may be, there is no Freddie. He was unique, as are all living things. But Freddie was truly special, more special than most.

A little pig died today. But my memories of him will remain with me. The happiness that Freddie gave me will be with me always, and I shall not forget him until I die. And then, perhaps, in some small way, little Freddie will die again, only this time, for me, it will not be so sad.