Pig theory

We’ve just tallied a record-setting sum of nine almost familiar entrapped pigs this season. We can see that  these invaders come in three  or more basic sizes: huge males, almost as huge males, and an occasional medium-sized sow.

Breaking a recent tradition of grand sized pigs , however, our most recent catch had ample room to frolic in the cage. He was a medium-sized male, and the noisiest to date. We were told that he’d  probably tip the scale at a modest 100 pounds, less robust than the last two boars who who were well on their way to 150 pounds, if not more. When we asked a few times where they were headed, answers to our repeated inquiries met with vague responses. Here, there, and everywhere.

This latest pig was greeted by an elated welcome committee headed by our accomplished pig catcher, who brought along  two future owners who briefed us on their plan to fatten the young boar up and  ultimately make room for him, cooked, on the family dining room table. Our ace pig hunter didn’t really need his crew’s support, but I suppose the new owners were curious about where this boar grew up, and wanted to participate in the cage release. Our favorite pig hunter stepped back a bit while the new jailers rolled up their sleeves.

If my theory is correct, it’s possible that the availability of local seemingly identical pigs in three basic sizes  has been  supported by a lucrative revolving door policy.  To sustain business, we suspect that the furloughed pigs are given a night at the ranch to get over the trauma of entrapment and then released  a day or two later under moonlight to  a familiar landscape. This ensures a steady flow of clients,  assuming that the pigs are willing to stay close to their hunting grounds and not seek higher grounds, where likely no cages will be be stocked with their favorite snacks. Our well-stocked pig cage is open for business all the time under contract. Their menu is a vegetarian dream with mangoes, bananas, papayas, avacadoes, and their beloved Macadamians.

It’s possible that the wrestling antics they provide when the pig hunter comes by to collect the animals are mere entertainment, promotional workouts before they’re released for their next showing. Maybe the pigs like to wrestle in public the way dogs will tussle a bit over bones. Maybe, the promise of more Macadamian nuts primes them to perform when we come by to watch the transferral from the cage to the truck.

Support for this theory lies primarily in the pig hunter’s vague responses to our questions about what he does with the pigs after he captures them. So vague it’s hard to remember, which is why the appearance of two future captors and soon to be owners took us by surprise. Maybe the chief jailer sensed some concern when he heard our questions too frequently.