In a Pig's Eye!
by P.W. Rooter
Special Correspondent
June 2001

I was out prowlin' around in the moon shine one night not too long ago, checkin' out the garden crops, figgerin' which ones it was time to raid, and which ones wasn't quite ready.

I h'yeard some right fierce gruntin' an' smackin' right aroun' the corner 'a one 'a them garden fences, so I eased up to see if it was one 'a my rootin' cousins that had done an' captured him a corn patch.

When I got there, I run up on a right hefty li'l ol' sow. I could tell she warn't no kin 'a mine, bein' jist a little bit too purty, and not havin' no real wild hawg smell about 'er. She was a hawg, all right - you c'n always tell, even if they ain't real rooters. But it wasn' no doubt but she was a town hawg, an' I didn' want ta git into no discussion with 'er, since them town hawgs always think they so dern smart, talkin' fancy about Transsubstantiation, and The Environmental Biomass, and stuff like that.

Well, this li'l sister I figgered would go at least three hunderd, and she was layin' into them corn rows and shuckin' out them ros'n ears like a champ. She must 'a plow up a couple 'a dozen 'a them fine corn stalks, when I kinda eased up to 'er and said, real nice, "Sister, you reck'n you might be makin' too much of a pig 'a yerself right here this close to town? Somebody ain't gonna like such as that."

Well, she just "Hmmph'd!" at me, and said, "Looky here, you scroungy woods rooter, I have busted outta th' pen jist fer the purpose 'a havin' myself a sure-nough ros'n ear feast. Now you jist get yore sorry hide on down th' road and let me alone!"

So, I done it. Let her hang aroun' too close t' town and give the whole Hawg nation a bad name with her orneriness.

From what I hear, it didn' take too long fer her to git her hams in a bind, neither. What happened was, ol' Jerry Gorham, the gen-u-ine Piney Woods hawg catcher from right there in Joyce, tolled that uppity sister in with a little dab 'a corn, hawg-tied 'er, and roped 'er to his truck, and brought 'er in to his pen. Last I h'yeard, she was still penned, waitin' fer somebody to make bail fer 'er and carry her on back t' th' house.

It's them kinda hawgs that winds up in a smoke house purty quick. The rest 'a us ol' rooters, we have learnt to be a little more crafty than that, and they's still lots 'a us out walkin' around in most any woods you find. I aim to keep on walkin' around.