This little piggy never made it

Her name was Pignolia and she was my 225-pound baby.

I got her when she was only six weeks old and raised her into a

lean, trained stuff-strutting machine. She was my prize-winning pig

and I was going to walk away from the Orange County Fair with various

blue ribbons -- or so I thought.

When I was in sixth grade, I joined the 4-H Club in Irvine

specifically to raise pigs. Why I joined -- when I had an already

extremely busy schedule with both soccer and softball -- and why I

chose pigs to raise are questions I’ll never know the answers to.

“Charlotte’s Web” was one of my favorite books -- maybe that had

something to do with it.

For whatever reason, I became a swine-o-file and dedicated large

chunks of my time (and my mother’s) to my large, chunky new project.

I would make my mom drive me down to what used to be the UC Irvine

Farm off University Drive (now just a bunch of frat houses) every day

so I could care for my pig.

Pignolia needed a house, so I built and painted the perfect pigsty

-- complete with mud hole and food trough.

Pignolia needed to be groomed, so I bought shampoo and a special

brush that made her auburn coat shine.

She needed training, so I took her on walks and ran her through an

obstacle course, using light taps with a cane to her jowls to steer

her.

She needed affection, so I loved her and hugged her and even spent

the night in the pen with her once.

I did all these things for months, with the end result being that

I would show Pignolia at the fair and then sell her to the highest

bidder.

That’s right. Sell her. For a set price per pound.

Pignolia was much more than a pet, she was a business. Tell a

12-year-old they can walk away from an extra curricular activity with

a check for $450 and you’ll see an increase in dedication and

motivation.

Tell that same 12-year-old that the animal they have raised from

infancy will soon be the main course at someone’s dining table and it

takes on a whole new meaning.

It was nearing fair time and I was struggling with the thought of

selling my baby. I kept focusing on the performance aspects of the

livestock shows to get my mind off the “final presentation” -- also

known as the auction.

I consistently took Pignolia to the training ring where we would

practice swaggering around the perimeter -- always remembering to

smile. Our walks also got a little longer and trips to the obstacle

course -- where she could practice her jumps -- became more frequent.

In three weeks, Pignolia and I would parade in front of a panel that

would judge us on presentation, control and overall beauty (hers not

mine.)

The leaner and more obedient she was, the higher our score. The

higher our scores, the more money bidders would pay. First-ranked

swine were auctioned as high as $22 per pound.

Pignolia was well-trained and had a sleek physique. Cha-ching!

We were set. I even painted a pig-shaped placard with her name on

it to hang proudly over her holding pen at the fair.

Two weeks before the fair Pignolia got really sick. One week

before the fair, she died.

Luckily, I was able to buy a last-minute replacement but it wasn’t

the same. This pig -- I can’t even remember his name -- was flabby,

disobedient and ugly. His white and black coat showed dirt more

easily and he hadn’t had much work with the cane. He was no Pignolia.

Nonetheless, I headed to the fairgrounds with my stand-in. We

ranked 84th out of 200-and-something pigs, which wasn’t bad,

considering. He sold for $2.21 a pound to Albertson’s.

I still had a blast at the fair with my fellow competitors, but I

couldn’t help think about how much more fun it would have been if I

had Pignolia with me. In a way, I was lucky because I didn’t even

shed a tear after the auction. He wasn’t my baby, he was just a pig.

That was my first and last year in 4-H. Instead of turning a

profit, I lost money because of Pignolia’s unforeseen medical

expenses. When I started junior high, I returned my focus to

athletics. I didn’t eat ham or bacon again until high school.

Now, every time I go back to the fair, I make it a point to visit

the livestock area. I love to see all the young 4-Hers running around

with their stark white uniforms and green hats and scarves, trying to

find their brush or cane. It brings back fond memories of events that

few city kids get to experience. How many people can say they raised

pigs?

* Lolita Harper covers Costa Mesa. She may be reached at (949)

574-4275 or by e-mail at [email protected].