Story time.
From the ages of 8 through 16, I was an active member of Sunrise 4-H. I went to community meetings on the first Monday of every month, held in the cafeteria of George Washington Battles Elementary School. One year, I was even the club assistant secretary with aspirations of being president or treasurer, the positions held by the cool high schoolers.
The best part of those eight years was raising pigs. I raised five pigs (I wish I could remember all of their names, but alas, I can’t). It was one of the coolest things i’ve ever done. I woke up every morning at five, March through July, to feed my pig, I walked them most afternoons, I washed them, clipped them, and generally fell in love with each one of them.
Then, the second week of July (inevitably the hottest week of the whole summer) I would take them to the Santa Barbara County Fair. I would have to dress up in horrible, terrible, no good, very bad whites: white pants, white collared shirt, boots, belt buckle, green hat and scarf. I had to drag my pig through the stress of weigh-in, market competitions, showmanship competitions, and finally auction day. I smiled and made eye contact with buyers, trying desperately to hear how much money I had made. I said goodbye to my pig and, two months later, collected my check.
Sometimes people ask me if raising pigs was why i became vegetarian. It’s not. I did, however, develop an unnatural obsession with pigs, but not just adorable pigglets or pigmy pigs. I love all types of pigs and I can tell you the differences between a Yorkshire, Hampshire, or even Durham, which everyone knows never place at Fair.
I secretly aspire to live on a ranch where I can have pigs and I secretly want my future kids to participate in 4-H. I am a hippy environmentalist pig farmer.
