Step Carefully

For such a simple task, one might ask why I am making such a fuss. Just get up and go. But there’s a catch for me—a 45 kg snoring one on the floor next to me. And although Chris’s twitching snout and smiling face suggest he’s off playing in the fields of his dreams, experience has shown that if I wake this slumbering sentinel, there will be a hefty price to pay: I’d have to take him out to pee.

And, unlike me, that is never a quick act.

Gone are the days when he was younger, taking the most direct route, just a few trotter steps from the back door to his self-declared privy. He would do what he came to do and in a few hasty steps he’d return, comfortable in the knowledge he would be rewarded for his efforts with a tasty purple grape. 

However, sometimes his mission was so quick that I missed it—until I eventually recognised the ruse. Chris, it seems, is a cunning lad, who quickly figured out that requesting to go outside for a pee would earn him his favourite treat of a purple grape afterward. When I got wise to his scheme, I enacted the rule: no pee, no grape. And thereafter, Chris decided to sleep through the night.

But that was then, and while Chris’s bladder has grown (unlike mine, which seems to have shrunk), he’s hatched another plan.

Should something—anything—rouse him from his repose, I am unceremoniously roused from mine. Once outside, my desperate pleas of “Chris, hurry up,” often go unheard as he morphs into an intrepid nighttime explorer.  He then makes the trek to the barn in search of any inadvertently dropped treats. 

Sometimes, his sojourns are so long that I could swear he has circumnavigated the entire sanctuary or popped into Lancefield for a snack, all while I wait outside in the cold. For as all pig aficionados will readily attest, no one—and I mean no one—makes a pig hurry up if the said pig doesn’t wish to hurry up!

But I digress.

My simple task of navigating my way to the bathroom—one that involves some 17 carefully placed steps—takes me around that snoring pig! And the floorboards in my somewhat rickety cabin have proven to be treacherous traitors indeed, giving away my intent. However, having performed this exercise all too many times, I have become a master cat burglar, discerning that the least “creaky” route is the one that takes me closest to said snoring Chris.

Sliding off the mattress and gently slipping on my slippers—darn, I just knocked Jessica’s water fountain. I hold my breath and my bladder in equal measure as I remain motionless until I am assured all is still. I make my first stealth-like move on the route I have mapped out a thousand times in my head. I take another and freeze for what seems like an eternity. Oh wait, what’s that? Chris starts to stir. Hold, hold, hold. “Okay, move!” I urge myself. I could well be commanding a battalion of invading troops seeking to sneak under the guard of their enemy. But it’s just me, myself and I commanding my full bladder.

I take another soft step; one that a prima ballerina would be proud of. The floorboard starts to creak; I make a little grunt as I shut down every inch of my body to quell the noise. I succeed. I take another step—only 15 to go, I mentally sigh. Chris stirs again, and in the slip of moonlight that steals in, I see him yawn. How gorgeous, I muse. He stretches—front trotters north, hind trotters south—absolutely adorable, I think. He breaks wind—a class act, I want to add, but that is difficult to do when one’s nose is assaulted by the sulphur-infused fart of a pig.

Composing myself, I press on with each cautious footfall, a calculated risk I must take. Chris opens his eyes; I open mine wider. Barely breathing our eyes lock, I hold my step midair and wait. And wait. I realise that it’s not only one’s bladder that deteriorates with age, but so too does one’s balance. Chris yawns again, shuffles a little in his bed, and soon the steady hum of sleep knows him once more. I exhale and continue my journey to the bathroom.

Mission complete, I make my uneventful return, retracing my steps as best I can, lest I disturb the sleeping pig. Slipping back under the covers, it’s more than their warmth that embraces me; it’s the love of a being as intelligent as myself—probably more so.

Chris is a being who, just like me, has learned the rhythms of our shared life and understands his place in it. He brings joy to my world, as I believe I do to his. He understands cause and effect, and has taught me much about patience, precision and presence—oh, and the beauty of a well-timed grape. And he shows an awareness and decorum that I repeatedly find so typical of his kind.

People often say they “live with a pig”, meaning it in a most derogatory sense. But I, for one, can hand-on-my heart say, “I live with a pig” and can readily affirm they are animals who belie the stereotypical beliefs that cast them as stupid and dirty animals.

Dozing back to sleep against the backdrop of his gentle grunts, I cannot help but smile at the simplicity of the message he has just imparted: how much better the world would be if we all stepped through life a little more carefully. It’s not so much about not waking him, but recognising the wisdom of his being, the sentience he holds and the gentle spirit that dwells inside all who tread the planet with us.

If only we stepped more carefully and allowed all pigs to sleep as soundly as he.