The Unexpected Genius of Pigs. Matt Whyman

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       The Reluctant Pig-Keeper

      A simple lesson

      Keeping pigs taught me a great deal about myself, and very little about the animals in my care. In the years that Butch and Roxi were part of my family, I discovered that my patience could be stretched almost limitlessly. I also realised that things I had considered to be important didn’t really matter, like flowerbeds and much of the fencing surrounding the garden. As a father of four young children, I was no stranger to hard work and responsibility. Even so, no amount of nappy changing could have prepared me for the muck I faced on a daily basis. The experience brought me closer to my wife, Emma, in the never-ending challenges presented by our porcine pair, but not once did we give up on them.

      Above all, for all the trials, escape bids and destruction, I learned about love.

      Life before pigs

      Looking back, I have only myself to blame. We live in the West Sussex countryside, in a brick and tile house on the edge of woods. There is a garden where our children used to like to play, and neighbours on each side. For some time, I’d kept chickens in an enclosure at the back. The area was defined by a picket fence that crossed behind a small apple tree and attached to the front corner of the shed. In effect, it was a paradise for poultry. My six-strong posse poked and scratched about in an abundance of space, and always sailed to the gate to greet me whenever I wandered down to see them.

      When a fox attack put paid to all but one of my flock, it prompted me to ask what animal might deter a repeat visit. What I had in mind was something that would send out a clear signal, like a crocodile, a pool of piranhas or an angry bull. I wasn’t being serious when I suggested a pig, though I’d heard they often spooked foxes. For Emma, it was reason enough to go online and do some research. When she found a type that could supposedly snuggle inside a handbag, it was a done deal.

      ‘These aren’t normal pigs,’ she pitched to me. ‘They’re minipigs.

      To be fair to Emma, she had done her homework. It’s just that at the time this amounted to trawling through a raft of irresistible pictures of impossibly small pigs in baby booties, and scant hard facts about what set them apart from your everyday swine. All she could do was take the word of the few breeders that she found who specialised in minipigs. According to them, pint-sized porkers grew just 12 inches high, which is roughly the same as a Terrier. They were smart, child-friendly, easily trained and happy to live under the same roof as us.

      Emma did tell me a lot more about them, but I had stopped paying attention when she delivered the clincher by assuring me I’d barely notice them. By then, my family were totally sold. A run-of-the-mill piglet costs about £30. For an eight-week-old minipig, you’re looking at anything between £500 and £1,000. Despite the hit, Emma believed it would be an investment. ‘The children will remember this,’ she said. Looking back, she wasn’t wrong. It’s just that I don’t think the experience shaped their lives in the way she had hoped.

      Butch and Roxi

      The new arrivals