Tom's Love Affair

Over the past few weeks, I have witnessed a side of my boyfriend I didn’t know existed.  His heart has melted like a neglected chunk of Western Star butter, leaving him reduced to a cooing, love-struck mess.  Now, I’d love to reveal some grand romantic gesture on my part that’s set Tom’s heart a-flutter, but alas, it’s not me who’s cast the spell.

Tom is head over heels in love with two snorting, squealing little pigs. 

It all started with an idea.  Tom is a true hobbyist, and his latest venture is transforming the disused land at his mum’s place into a working farm.  Part of the reason is so we can become ‘ethical meat eaters’, whereby we only eat animals we raise ourselves, ensuring they’ve been given a happy life. 

‘I bet you won’t be able to actually kill them.’  Said everybody ever who has heard Tom’s master plan, and Tom, defiant as always, begged to differ.  I kept quiet, eyebrows raised.    

We adopted the piglets from an exhausted local farmer amid deafening squeals and the smell of shit.  The mother hog, fat as all hell and screaming in protest, frightened the heck out of us, and Tom backed out of the pen, never letting her out of his sight.

The first days were to the book.  We set the sisters up in their homemade enclosure, purchased some pig pellets, and were glad when they seemed to settle in. 

I knew it was all over when Tom brought them a hot water bottle. 

‘Do you think they might be a bit cold?’  I asked as we lay in bed one freezing morning.

‘I dunno.’ 

At that point, I’ll admit, I decided to tell a porky.  ‘Back in Iowa we used to give the piglets hot water bottles when they’d been separated from the mother, to give them warmth and comfort.’

Well Tom couldn’t exactly refuse those pigs their due, could he?  He got right up and fixed them their hottie, and as I watched him place it tenderly under the snoozing swine, I knew it was everlasting love.       

He is more protective of those bloody things than their own mother was.  In the morning, he leaps up at sparrow’s fart to prepare them a hot meal of potato and donut mush.  I tried to feed it to them once but was severely reprimanded.

‘KATIE, NOOOOO!!!’  He screeched, hurtling over to me at lightning speed and seizing the pot.  ‘You’ve got to check if it’s cooled down enough!’  He proceeded to dip his elbow in the mush, like, 20 times at intervals of a minute before he was finally satisfied as to its palatability.

Then, when they do eat, he kneels down on the ground and gives them a nice big scratch, grinning from ear to ear.  Like a child with a reluctant feline, he insists on picking them up and cuddling them, laughing hysterically as they squirm in his grasp.

  

He’s spent a great deal of time and money fencing off an enormous area for them to play and dig, which they do, day after day like industrious miners.         

When we’re back in Melbourne he scowers the dumpsters for them, locating hidden treasures like pita bread, muffins, and their favourite; chocolate mousse. 

And for the first time in his adult life, he calls his mum every day for a blow by blow commentary on their movements.  Today, sitting beside me eating breakfast, he told his mum to ‘put the pigs on the phone’, and went on to listen to their snorting for a deranged amount of time, smile glued to his face.   

Now, what do you think, will we be eating these pigs?