This is Rupert.
Rupert is my new pet.
A mini-pot belly pig given to us by a couple who realized they had made a seriously poor impulse purchase.
They had a backyard entirely of cement.
A front yard with no fence.
Both had full-time jobs and so leaving the little three-month old piggy man in the house all day while they were gone was a recipe for disaster.
Rupert is (and this is an understatement) a handful.
But… we were willing to take him from his owners. We had a houseful of pets and I had been hoping to get a pig or a pygmy goat to be friends with my chicken Matilda, for quite awhile and so… within the first week of taking Rupert… I believed I had made the perfect choice: Matilda loved him.
They wandered around the front yard together; Rupert rooting around in the grass making big dirt holes with his snout. Matilda by his side eating all of the worms that he uncovered… a bit like a gang-of-two and we began to call them by their aliases… Ham and Eggs.
They were inseparable.
But then… the trouble began.
Rupert became comfortable with his new environment and his Prima donna personality began to shine through.
He didn’t like to be touched when outside in fact, he squealed and jumped back each time one of us approached him.
But at night, when he came in for dinner, and to go to bed on his furry little leopard skin blanket on the cool tile floor of the bathroom, he flipped over on his side expecting a full body massage as he smiled, yawned, smacked his little piggy lips, and stretched his little cloven-hoofed legs out in front of him and batted his long piggy eyelashes.
He was adorable… but of course… he seemed to believe that he was completely entitled.
By week two, we realized there was trouble on the horizon.
The front yard had giant patches of grass entirely removed… Matilda’s chicken feed had to be hidden from him or like the pig that he was… he would gobble it all down without a second piggy thought and… being that he is a very smart little man… he seemed to know exactly when the clock struck 6:30pm and so… he would rush to the front door, squeal and bang on it repeatedly until we let him in for dinner and bed.
The sound was terrifying.
Charlotte, our youngest, actually heard his commotion and her eyes grew big as she said, “My God! It sounds like you have a Changeling at the door!”
A White Walker
A Pig Nightmare.
Or as my good friend Warren liked to call him: a Purely Evil Pig wrapped in Cuteness.
Now… of course my children loved to post photos like this on Instagram:
Fooling you into a false sense of pig security as you say to yourself, “Awwwwwwwwww. How sweet! That Rupert is just the cutest little thing! D.D. must be exaggerating in this story.”
But I tell you, he is the devil.
The other night, I wouldn’t let him in a half-an-hour early for dinner and as I stood in the laundry room, getting ready to turn on the dryer, I heard a loud crashing sound from the front yard.
Afraid that something serious had happened, I rushed to the front door, opened it, and there I saw Rupert, his little piggy legs spread apart in a stance of defiance, his snout held high, one of my prized ceramic gnomes now decapitated and lying severed; body on one side… head on the other… across the front walkway.
“Rupert?” I asked. “Did you do that?”
He wiggled his little piggy nose, pushed the decapitated head with his snout, and let out a loud snort as if to say, “FUCK YES I DID IT! And guess what? There’s more where THAT came from lady!”
I stared at him… he glared back.
I was shocked at the little bastard he had become… and just as I was about to punish him for his behavior by closing the front door and making him wait and extra hour for dinner, Ringo, aka Bastard Number Two, our male teacup chihuahua, ran outside, lifted his leg and peed inside the broken innards of my gnome’s head.
I watched as Ringo’s urine puddled inside of my gnome’s little broken red cap… dumbfounded for just a moment… before I became enraged that these assholes were actually biting the hand that feeds them.
“THAT’s IT!” I shouted. “You fuckers get the fuck away from my gnome!”
Rupert ran for the bushes.
Ringo ran for the house.
As Matilda watched from a distance, her head cocked slightly to the side, amused to see her little toadies torment and mock me.
“Keep it up,” I said. “You’ll be chicken dinner, he’ll be Christmas ham,” and here I turned to shout inside of the house, “And you Ringo will have your balls chopped off.”
There was complete silence.
No one moved.
I reached for my broken gnome, dumped the pee from his cap and placed his bisected remains into a large flower pot.
I turned on my heel and went inside to sulk in the quiet of my office but not ten minutes later… piggy brat Rupert was squealing at the front door.
“Mother fucker,” I yelled, which didn’t stop Rupert from squealing but did cause my mother to mute Two and a Half Men long enough to shout, “God, the mouth on you!”
Too worked up to even yell at the “Old” I opened the front door and watched as Rupert passed me without another sound and made a B-line to the bathroom where he expected to find his dinner in his bowl.
When he saw that it was empty, he kicked over his water dish and stomped his little feet and THAT… was IT!
I had HAD it!
I smacked his fat little pig butt, and he didn’t even care, he just threw his weight into it and then turned around and screamed at me.
I physically turned him around the other way, as he wailed bloody murder and pushed against me… but I wouldn’t have it… I made the little bastard go to his piggy bed.
“NO!” I shouted. “NO RUPERT!”
He refused to turn around then.
He faced the wall and stood there.. defiantly… ass to my face… refusing to listen.
“Do you understand I won’t tolerate this behavior?”
He begrudgingly swished his tail once, just like a spoiled child who realizes that he has lost the battle but that the war isn’t over yet, and he understood.
I swear I could hear him chanting in his little piggy mind, I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I closed the bathroom door and went to get his dinner.
By the time I came back… he was rooting about, fluffing his blanket, as if nothing ever happened.
The little shit.
I reached down and fed him, then watched as he licked the bowl clean before flopping over on his side, tired and world-weary from his little tantrum, ready for his full body massage… as if we had made up… and all that transpired was now: water under the bridge.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
I sighed as I sat down on the toilet and rubbed the little man down.
It was no different than dealing with a tired toddler.
He stretched and yawned and I resigned myself to my fate.
In the morning we would try again.
In the morning we would find a way to make this right.
In the morning, I would go to Jack-in-the-Box and eat a Breakfast Jack with ham and in that way… extract my revenge on Rupert.
Yes my little man.. that’s right…. a BREAKFAST JACK WITH HAM.
My little piggy demon.
Love it! Our pig devil is named Raji. Just know that somewhere in Orange County, I am living your life…
Samantha…. I think we need to start an “evil pig wrapped in cuteness” support group.
I love your pig’s name! That used to be the name of my favorite underground L.A. night club. 🙂 D