A grunt.
Not a human grunt. It’s lower. Wetter. Accompanied by what sounds like hooves on gravel and a rustling in the hedge that separates my yard from the road.
I open my eyes, my legs moving on autopilot. I’m thankful I followed my instinct to leave my coffee on the side table because…
A pig is standing in my driveway.
She’senormous. Significantly larger than I expected Tammy to be, which I realize is a stupid thought because I’ve heard about this pig at least a dozen times, yet nothing prepared me for the reality of her. She’s pink and grayish-brown and built like a small tank. She’s staring at me with an expression I can only describe as judgmental. Like she’s deciding whether I’m worth her time.
“You must be Tammy,” I say, because, apparently, I now speak to livestock.
Tammy grunts again and takes a step forward. Then another. She’s heading for the stairs with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who’s been here before, which—given what Beth has told me about the solstice party and every other interaction she’s had with this pig close to my house—she probably has.
I should be alarmed. I’m not. I’m mostly fascinated—and a little concerned about the herb garden.
“Those are my basil plants,” I tell her as she veers toward the raised bed along the side of the deck. “I need those.”
Tammy doesn’t care about my needs. She roots her snout into the edge of the bed, snuffling loudly, and I have approximately four seconds to make a decision before my plants are consumed by a three-hundred-pound escape artist.
I go inside, moving quickly, and grab the first thing I can find: an apple from the bowl on the counter. Beth’s apple, technically. She left it here yesterday and forgot about it, which means it’s been sitting on the counter, slowly becoming pig bait, and I choose to believe the universe orchestrated this.
Back on the deck, Tammy has progressed from sniffing to actively excavating. There’s dirt on her snout and what appears to be a piece of thyme hanging from her mouth.
“Hey, Tammy. Look.” I hold the apple up, and her head swings toward me with a speed that’s startling for an animal hersize. Her ears twitch forward. Her eyes lock onto the apple with laser focus.
“Yeah. You want this?” I take a step down, and she takes a step toward me, and we regard each other with mutual wariness. Up close, she’s sort of magnificent. Ridiculous, but magnificent. Her eyes are surprisingly intelligent, and there’s a stubbornness in the set of her jaw that reminds me of someone I know. But I will never admit that out loud. I like breathing too much.
I hold the apple out, and she approaches cautiously at first, then with growing confidence until her snout bumps my palm. Her breath is warm and damp. Her mouth is gentler than I expected when she takes the apple. Not a snatch. Almost polite.
“Good girl.” I’m petting a pig.
A few months ago, I was having panic attacks in a fancy office on Bay Street. Now, I’m standing in my driveway in Nova Scotia, petting a pig, and it feels completely normal. Life is strange.
Tammy crunches the apple with devastating efficiency. It’s gone in four bites. Then she looks up at me expectantly.
“That’s all I’ve got. Time to go home.” I point in the general direction of the Hendersons’ farm, which is about a kilometer down the road and has, to my understanding, a fence Tammy treats more as a suggestion than a boundary.
Tammy snorts. Considers me for a long moment. Then, with the air of a queen dismissing a courtier, she turns and waddles down the driveway, across the road, and into the tall grass on the other side, heading vaguely farm-ward.
I watch her go and pull out my phone.
Me:
You’ll never guess who just visited me.
Beth’s reply is almost instant:
If you say Tammy, I swear to God…
Me:
She ate my thyme. I bribed her with your apple.
Beth:
MY apple????
Me:
